Trefoil
by TellMeMore90
Summary: To his surprise he found himself loved. Not just by one, but by two of the most amazing people he had ever known. With cases to work on, criminals to chase and a new DI to break in, Sherlock found himself to be ... content. (Follows 'Watersheds' - read that first to understand the demiromantic/biromantic/heteroromantic relationship. Canon divergent AU. This is not BBC S3 Mary)
1. The Prologue

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, but am eternally grateful for the genius of ACD and now MG, SM, BC, MF and the BBC crew.

I have no experience with asexuality, but have researched the subject on the internet I apologise if I have got anything wrong. Any errors are for the sake of the story and not to cause offence.

If you wish to comment, I would love to hear from you.

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In a theatre, a scrim, sometimes gauze, is a curtain made of an open-weave fabric that appears opaque when lit from the front, but transparent when a person or object behind the curtain is lit (many thanks wiki whatnot)

* * *

He couldn't tell precisely what had caused goosebumps on his flesh and his heart rate to rise. As he paused on the threshold of the flat some disturbance in its atmosphere had caused him to become suddenly alert. Uncertain of what awaited him and unwilling to tip his hand he reached into his pocket for his mobile, feigning a text message as he assessed the evidence of an intruder.

Sherlock had been the last person to leave 221B that day. Mary and John had both left for work that morning, John for his shift at University College Hospital A&E and Mary for her lectures at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. Neither was expected back until early evening. Sherlock had left in late morning, first to catch up with his homeless network and then to visit Molly at Barts to collect some tissue samples for his latest experiments.

Standing on the threshold of their flat Sherlock surreptitiously studied the carpet in the door way. Faint indentations from work boots had crushed the fibre. So, someone had entered the flat.

Still appearing to study his phone Sherlock let out an exasperated hiss then turned on his heel and stomped down the stairs towards Flat A, bellowing for Mrs Hudson. As he descended in a swirl of Belstaff and annoyance his eyes scanned the hallway looking for any disturbance, any clue, any sign of the intruder's intent.

Above the front door, tucked into the corner under the fanlight Sherlock spotted a tiny camera. Now he knew what he was looking for he marched to Mrs Hudson's door and knocked.

Looking flustered, his landlady opened her door, wiping her floury hands on her apron, removing the remains of her latest batch of baking.

"What is it Sherlock?" Her annoyance at his demanding bellows was obvious in her voice and the tight pinch of her mouth and around her eyes. "I could hear you shouting down the stairs. What's the matter?"

With a look of fond exasperation he took her shoulders and eased her gently backwards into her flat, kicking her front door shut behind him.

* * *

**Authors Notes:**

So you know, based upon the outcome of my previous story, Watersheds, I did some digging on how I see my characters identifying, even though, as John says, "I soon learned that the labels were actually pretty meaningless. I am John Hamish Watson and I am who I am."

In the story, John identifies himself as biromantic – the romantic aspect of bisexuality.

Based on John's diagnosis, which Sherlock agrees with, Sherlock identifies as demiromantic - he may feel romantic attraction once a reasonably stable or strong emotional connection has been created. However he hates to be touched by those he has no romantic attraction to except by the very few he has an established strong emotional connection with. This includes Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Although his main area of casual interest in the past has been men, he now includes Mary in his sphere of romantic attraction.

Throughout the story Mary identifies herself as asexual or under more recent definitions, largely heteroromantic - "If you were to ask on the Kinsey scale I'm probably about a 2. I'm predominantly interested in men, but can be attracted to a woman. I have no interest in sexual intercourse."

As I said, I have no actual experience with this and have based this on internet research, but this is how I want my characters to be for the purposes of this story arc. If I've got anything badly wrong then please let me know. Any and all comments and constructive criticism are welcomed. Many thanks.


	2. After the Wedding

The wedding had been exhilarating and, at the same time, overwhelming. When John and Mary had turned away to dance and mingle with their guests, Sherlock had taken the opportunity to withdraw quietly. The cool evening air and walk back to the main road allowed him to start settling his mind. The people, chatter, loud music and flashing lights were all too much. When combined with the turmoil of emotions Sherlock's mind was beginning to spiral uncomfortably. He needed peace to process all the data. He needed home.

Reaching the main road, he began walking towards London. A call to a local taxi company secured a cab. Ten minutes later the headlights of an approaching car, followed by two swift blasts on the horn signalled the arrival of his transportation. Forty five minutes later the cab pulled up outside 221B Baker Street.

It was barely ten o'clock when Sherlock let himself into Flat B, hung up his coat and scarf and made his way to his bedroom. His suit was hung up, the buttonhole carefully removed and placed tenderly on his dressing table next to his phone, wallet, watch and coin tray. His dress shoes were tucked away in the bottom of his wardrobe. Underwear was stripped and deposited, along with his dress shirt, in the laundry basket. Sherlock opened the door from his bedroom into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting it get up to heat.

The torrent of water over his head and shoulders began to massage out the tensions that had accumulated throughout the day. The ritual of his evening ablutions calmed his mind further, the gentle massaging of shampoo and then conditioner into his scalp easing the threatening headache. Within thirty minutes he was stretched out on the sofa dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown, hands crossed on his chest, his mind now relaxed enough to allow him to review the reception hall of his mind palace where today's accumulated data awaited processing.

By the time the newly married John and Mary Watson returned to the flat at 11:37 armed with a magnum of champagne and a data stick of photos and videos of the day, all courtesy of Mycroft, Sherlock was ready to face this new phase of his life: sharing a home with a married couple. John giggled as he struggled to carry a slightly tipsy and joyful Mary over the threshold into Flat B, the flowing lace of her dress wrapping between his legs and threatening to trip them both.

"Excellent, you're home. I trust you've had a wonderful evening." Laughter and joyful faces answered his question to his satisfaction. "Go and get ready for bed. I'll get the tea on."

Mary stepped forward clasping Sherlock's hand whilst John threw his arms around his best friend's shoulders in a gleeful hug. "Sherlock, you are a wonder. Give us twenty minutes or so to get out of these togs and we'll be back. A snuggle on the sofa and a cup of tea sounds the perfect way to round off this wonderful day, don't you think."

Sherlock's lips twitched into an affectionate smile as his two loves made their way up the stairs to their bedroom. He placed the now warm bottle of champagne in the fridge and plugged his laptop into the telly so that they could benefit from the larger screen. He was just fishing the teabags out of the three mugs when John came back downstairs, also in pyjamas and dressing gown.

The glowing man walked over to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his love, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock's neck.

"It was a wonderful day. We were both so happy you could share it with us." A hand reached up to ruffle Sherlock's hair, stroking fondly through soft curls. "Have you filed away everything in your mind palace now?"

Sherlock sighed as his eyes fluttered closed at the gentle pressure on his scalp. A soft hum answered John's question.

"Oh, this is what I like to see. My two favourite men canoodling. And I believe that I am owed a waltz." Mary had entered the room, wrapped in a dressing down of ivory silk and waving the CD Sherlock had made for them. As John made to pull away to allow Mary her dance with Sherlock, Mary raised a hand. "No John, stay where you are. I'll just pop this in the lappy so you and Sherlock can dance properly. That is the dance I want to see. And as it's my wedding day I believe my wish is your command."

Mary sat on the sofa, her arms wrapped around her folded legs, knees tucked under her chin, hands stroking the ivory silk of her pyjama trousers and smiled affectionately at her two beloveds as they waltzed to Sherlock's beautiful composition. Both men looked enraptured as they gazed into each other's eyes. When the music came to a close, Mary let out a gentle sigh and rose from her seat to join the men in a warm embrace.

A minute later the trio broke apart as Mary led them by the hand to the sofa. They curled together to drink tea, watch images of the celebrations and laugh as they shared anecdotes, observations and impressions, consolidating their memories of a beautiful day.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

So you know, based upon the outcome of my previous story, 'Watersheds', I did some digging on how I see my characters identifying, even though, as John says, "I soon learned that the labels were actually pretty meaningless. I am John Hamish Watson and I am who I am."

In the story, John identifies himself as biromantic – the romantic aspect of bisexuality.

Based on John's diagnosis, which Sherlock agrees with, Sherlock identifies as demiromantic - he may feel romantic attraction once a reasonably stable or strong emotional connection has been created. However he hates to be touched by those he has no romantic attraction to except by the very few he has an established strong emotional connection with. This includes Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Although his main area of casual interest in the past has been men, he now includes Mary in his sphere of romantic attraction.

Throughout the story Mary identifies herself as asexual or under more recent definitions, largely heteroromantic - "If you were to ask on the Kinsey scale I'm probably about a 2. I'm predominantly interested in men, but can be attracted to a woman. I have no interest in sexual intercourse."

As I said, I have no actual experience with this and have based this on internet research, but this is how I want my characters to be for the purposes of this story arc. If I've got anything badly wrong then please let me know. Any and all comments and constructive criticism are welcomed. Many thanks.


	3. Honeymoon for three

John rested his chin on his hand as he watched the flat plains of the French countryside fly past the window at 180 miles per hour, the skyline broken occasionally by a blur of village, farm or copse of trees. Mary sat beside him reading the latest Lindsey Davis novel she'd picked up at WH Smiths in St Pancras station. She had kicked off her shoes and was rubbing the arch of her foot against John's leg in a gently soothing rhythm.

Sherlock sat opposite John, his nose buried in a Victorian text documenting tropical diseases that Mary had managed to borrow from the library at work. He was currently studying with some relish a graphic and somewhat gruesome pen and ink illustration of an infestation of guinea worm.

They had chosen to take the Eurostar to Paris rather than fly as the check in was less traumatic and the chance of Sherlock becoming bored diminished greatly with his ability to roam the train, deducing the other travellers as he went. He had learned to keep his mouth firmly shut so as not to cause a riot, but even so it helped to pass the time. He'd also managed to snap a picture of an absconding embezzler, which he'd texted to Lestrade to pass on to the investigating detective.

Sherlock had insisted on first class as the seats were larger and passengers fewer and, in his words, moderately less raucous. He'd also booked a champagne breakfast hamper to be delivered to the train for their journey. They'd gorged on smoked salmon bagels, croissants with butter and an assortment of jams, an exotic fruit platter, varied cold meats and cheeses, a selection of breads and rolls, and a bottle of champagne. Even Sherlock had nibbled the contents of the hamper and now declared himself replete.

Mycroft had booked the hotel for the honeymoon. He had arranged adjoining rooms in an incredibly exclusive bistro hotel on the Rue de Rivoli. A limousine awaited them at the Gare du Nord to transfer them to the hotel. The staff were friendly, efficient and politely deferential. Check in was dealt with in short order and they were soon shown to their rooms by a bellboy.

John and Mary's room was entered first. Mary gasped at the elegant decor and the spectacular view over the Jardins du Tuileries. The bellboy seemed pleased at her cries of joy. "Oh John, this is beautiful." She ran round the room, opening doors. The call of "Oh my god, you have to see this." drew John to her side and an arm round her waist as she gestured excitedly towards the bathroom with its large bath, and walk in shower. John knew she was already picturing a luxurious bubble bath with either John or Sherlock massaging the accumulated tension from her shoulders.

Leaving Mary to explore the room, John moved over to the other wall and its locked door. Hearing Sherlock's baritone beyond the door dismissing the bellboy, John unlocked his side and knocked gently. Moments later Sherlock unlocked his side and opened the door.

"Sherlock, much as I hate to say it, Mycroft has excelled himself. This room is beautiful." Sherlock grimaced at the mention of Mycroft but could not help but smile as Mary made yet another delighted circuit of the room, twirling and grinning before collapsing backwards onto the plush king size bed with an ecstatic sigh.

-0-0-0-

They had seven days to explore Paris, a city John had never visited and Mary had spent three days in on a school coach trip when she was 10. Seven days for Sherlock to impart some of his sentiment for the city so much a part of his childhood.

Each day began with breakfast in the hotel while they planned their day. For this one week Sherlock managed to suppress his abhorrence of all things mundane to guide his partners around the city that he knew so well.

He had spent a week every summer until he was fourteen visiting Paris with his Grand-mère Véronique as part of his month long stay in her manoir nestled in the countryside outside St Germain de Lusignan. She insisted that running round the countryside like a gypsy getting into scrapes and disturbing the wildlife (or conducting experiments as the juvenile Holmes had whined whilst being mercilessly scrubbed clean in the bathtub by his Grand-mère's monstrous housekeeper, Madame Chevallier) needed to be tempered with the civilising influence of the Capital. So for one week each summer he stayed with his Grand-mère in the elegant apartment of one of her dearest friends, on the Place des Vosges.

Sherlock spent that week in restricting suits, hair combed and face washed on his absolute best behaviour as his Grand-mère took him to museums, palaces, churches and cathedrals. Every evening they dined in luxury on the finest cuisine Paris had to offer before journeying to a classical concert, the ballet or the opera. Sherlock was exposed to the history and culture of the French capital whilst enjoying the company of his beloved Grand-mère and, despite everything, he loved it.

Even the six weeks he had endured there in his deconstruction of Moriarty's web, living on the streets and surviving on little more than scraps whilst pursuing and being pursued by some of the most odious criminals he had ever encountered could not tarnish his love of the city. The memories of his Grand-mère had sustained him on many a cold night as he had huddled under a bridge or tucked himself between the bins behind the Opera.

It was only since meeting John and then going through the hell of his twenty eight months away that Sherlock had come to realise just how many things in his life he cared deeply about, even loved. He'd realised in his mid-teens that he did not feel attraction as other boys did. Very few of his family, acquaintances or possessions were of any consequence to him. His Grand-mère, dog Redbeard and his violin were the only constants in his life that truely meant anything.

Then in the spring of his fifteenth year his Grand-mère had succumbed to a stroke and Redbeard had to be put down after being shot by a poacher. In that summer he played his violin incessantly and during grief therapy was maliciously diagnosed as a sociopath by the pathetic excuse for a psychiatrist in revenge for Sherlock disclosing his emotional abuse of his two young sons. After the diagnosis people, even his own family, tended to leave him alone, fearful of what the sociopath would do if aggravated. Sherlock took the diagnosis to his heart and worked it for all he was worth just to get everyone to leave him alone.

Only the arrival of John in his life made him realise how much he had sold himself short. John had not accepted the high-functioning sociopath label almost from the start. And as their platonic relationship blossomed, Sherlock came to realise just how lonely he had been and how much he _needed_ to care not just about his work, but his colleagues, his friends and his life. 'Caring is not an advantage' no longer worked for him. Yes, caring caused him pain and made him vulnerable, but it also gave him strength he never knew he possessed. Strength to let John into his heart, strength to do what was needed to protect three important people, strength to ask Mycroft and Molly for help and strength enough to survive almost three years of hell.

And now here he was, with two people he loved with all his heart in the city he had come to think of as his mistress. Paris thrilled and titillated him, bringing a spring to his step and a smile to his face. The expectation of visiting was enough to cause a frisson to course through his body. But if Paris was his metropolitan mistress then London was his dominatrix. He was addicted to London, always returning to bear every beating and punishment, trusting that she would ultimately lave, calm and soothe those hurts. He knew that, when he returned to Baker Street, his city would punish him for this dalliance to reassert possession of her favoured son, but would ultimately comfort and forgive him, as always.

-0-0-0-

So, every day, Sherlock guided the honeymooners around the city, imparting history and folk-lore, tales of murder, mayhem and revolution, better than any tour guide. The smile on his face told its own story of just how much enjoyment he had from showing the two dearest people in the world to him the city so adored by his Grand-mère.

On the day John and Mary spent a delightful day doing the tourist thing and visiting the Château de Versailles, Sherlock took advantage of an offer from Greg Lestrade. He had contacted a colleague at the Police Nationale to arrange for Sherlock to spend the day reviewing some of their cold case files. By the time John texted to say he and Mary were back at the hotel, Sherlock had solved eleven cases and identified new avenues of investigation for nine more.

Each evening was spent sampling the delights of the city from a pavement cafe in Montmatre, to the fine dining available in Michelin starred restaurants. Both Sherlock and John had been surprised that Mary adored the works of Debussy, so one evening was spent listening to a recital by an exceptional group of music students from the Conservatoire de Paris whilst another evening was spent enjoying vibrant folk music in a bar in the Latin Quarter.

And every evening they returned to their rooms to wind down. John would sit on the sofa and read, whilst Sherlock would rest his head on John's lap, John's fingers combing through his curls. Mary preferred to sit next to John, her legs curled up beside her and her hand rubbing gentle patterns on his thigh as she would either read or gently rest her head on his shoulder. Finally they would retire to their respective beds, the door between the rooms remaining open. As happened at home, sometimes they would wake up in their separate rooms or, if Sherlock had suffered nightmares or had heard either John or Mary in distress, they would wake all together in John and Mary's bed. All three of them had witnessed horrors in their lives, and it was not uncommon for nightmares to disturb the sleep of at least one of the partners.

Their week ended too soon, but the final day was a relief none the less. Having packed their bags and handed them to the safe keeping of the concierge, they strolled in the morning sunshine from their hotel to enjoy a sumptuous brunch at Café Crème on the Rue Dupetit-Thouars.

Returning to their hotel, they collected their luggage and took a taxi to the Gare du Nord. The return journey was quiet but each of the lovers tingled with the expectation of returning home to 221B Baker Street and the life they were building for themselves.


	4. Mrs Hudson

Explaining love without sex to Mrs Hudson is not fun. Sherlock realises how incredibly lucky he is.

* * *

Upon returning to Baker Street in the early evening, they were greeted by an enthusiastic Mrs Hudson who fussed and fluttered around Mary and Sherlock as John manhandled their luggage up the stairs into Flat B.

"Oh, you're home. Was it wonderful? Paris is so beautiful, so romantic. I always think it must be a wonderful place to start a new life." And she gave an almost lascivious wink at Mary. Sherlock saw the wink and Mary's shocked expression. Despite everything, Mrs Hudson still could not quite accept that her upstairs flat was not a hotbed of rampant sex.

Before Mary could sputter out her denials, Sherlock gently guided their landlady back towards her own flat. "Mrs Hudson, we're all quite tired and would like to relax and tidy ourselves up. I know you're not our housekeeper but I can smell that you've been baking, blueberry muffins if I'm not mistaken. If you have a few left over we would love to sample them."

"Oh Sherlock, of course I have some extra. I'll bring them up in a minute. And I have your post here as well. Go on, upstairs with you both, and don't mind me Mary dear. Now, up you go."

Shooing them towards the stairs she returned to her flat to sort out muffins and post.

Entering the flat, Mary let out an uncomfortable sigh, her shoulders slumping. Returning to the sitting room, John saw Mary's distress and moved forward, a questioning look passing from Mary to Sherlock.

"Mary love, what happened?"

Sherlock answered whilst Mary struggled and failed to calm herself. "Unfortunately Mrs Hudson happened. Started on about procreation again."

John grunted and shook his head in disbelief. "I don't get it. I tell her every time she brings up the possibility of Mary and I moving out that we're quite happy here and don't need any more room."

Sitting down on the sofa with her head in her hands, elbows resting on her knees, Mary let out an upset huff as tears began to sting her eyes. "It's just like my mother all over again. She couldn't understand either and I'm so tired of people making assumptions about me. I don't want to have to justify who I am, but as a woman, and now a married woman, everyone assumes that the next step is babies, even if that's not what I want, or have ever wanted."

John sat next to his wife and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "I know love. I know it's horrible to have to justify ourselves to people, but it's worse when the ones we love just won't understand."

Mary lifted her head and wiped tears from her eyes. "It's so stupid!" She spat out in angry frustration. "I'm asexual. But no matter how often I tried to explain to my mum she always said I just hadn't met the right man. Like I was making a choice or trying to punish her in some way when I told her I'd never have children. She caught me kissing a boy goodnight after a date and was cock-a-hoop because I was fixed. I'm not fucking broken, I'm not incapable of love, I just don't want sex! Why is that so difficult to understand?"

Mary's anguished cry was thrown into the ether. John tightened his hold on her as she turned her face into his shoulder to bury her bitter sobs, and Sherlock stepped forward to offer what solace he could.

A hurt gasp came from the kitchen.

As the drama had unfolded in the sitting room, Mrs Hudson had arrived in the kitchen with a plate of muffins and a bundle of post, unheeded by the emotional residents of the flat. She heard Mary's anguish and realised that her unguarded comments had caused this pain.

Mrs Hudson was a caring woman who had never been able to have a family of her own. Her husband had always insisted that pregnancy would ruin her body and she would no longer be able to dance for his clients, after all who wanted to watch an exotic dancer with 'saggy tits and stretch marks' he'd said whenever she raised the matter. The one time she had fallen pregnant he'd dragged her along to one of his associates, a doctor, who sorted out her 'little problem'. After he'd been arrested and executed for multiple homicides in Florida, she had sighed with relief and returned to London, hoping to meet a nice man hopefully with children of his own who she could love. Unfortunately, she hadn't realised that her husband had inflicted more damage on her than she knew. His persistent abuse left her untrusting of most men making any form of intimacy almost impossible for her.

Faced with the prospect of no family of her own, she had for a few years, become a pram stalking, pregnancy bump rubbing, baby cheek pinching mad woman. It was only when she had nearly been assaulted by a young woman in Woolworths that she realised just how desperate she had become. The poor girl was heavily pregnant and Mrs Hudson had been drawn to the gravid stomach like a moth to the flame. The girl had slapped her reaching hand away and screamed "Don't touch me you fucking psycho!"

A humiliated Martha Hudson had leapt away in shame and had left the shop, head bowed and face red, tears streaming down her cheeks. A visit to her GP had resulted in a diagnosis of depression, three years of anti-depressants and a course of psychiatric treatment to deal with the fall-out from her disastrous marriage.

When the young man who had ended her marriage and her husband had approached her in search of lodgings, she had, of course offered him a deal on her upstairs flat. After all, without him she would never have been able to spirit away enough of her husband's money to give her a comfortable life in London. She hadn't wanted to touch it, but Sherlock had convinced her that it was really her money. She'd earned it the hard way entertaining her husband's clients, and deserved to take anything she could from her years of hell and abuse. She'd argued that it was dirty money, coming from crime, but Sherlock had convinced her that putting it to good use in London was far better than it sitting in a police evidence locker in Florida whilst she struggled to earn a living.

She had taken to Sherlock from the first, when he started working as a plate washer in the kitchen of her husband's club. She wasn't a stupid woman and had quickly realised that the rude boy who hated to be touched was really a lot smarter than he claimed to be. When he'd found her in tears in her pokey dressing room after her husband had humiliated her and dragged her from the club floor by her hair in front of a room full of punters, he'd offered her a way out and a promise of a better life if she would help him bring her husband down. Her trust had not been misplaced. The lanky boy had done everything he'd promised and more. She leapt at the chance to repay him properly by offering him a home, and then, in short order, Sherlock had brought home the damaged soldier and suddenly she had two boys to care for.

And care for them she did. Despite their ridiculous hours, the violin playing, the shouting and shot walls, and of course the endless stream of police officers and clients in and out of their flat, she'd become very fond of her boys. Being an old romantic at heart, she'd hoped that Sherlock would find the love he so deserved, ideally with his adorable flat mate, but then, against all reason, Sherlock died and John crumbled.

For a few weeks she was sure that she had lost her little family. She kept a close eye on the upstairs flat, sitting pensively in her own flat, her ears straining for sounds of life from her remaining boy. She heard the hours of pacing, was woken on many nights by whimpers and terrified screams, listened once to glass (Sherlock's science equipment?) smashing into the wall, but it was the hours of silence that terrified her the most. She had a horrible feeling of doom when she accompanied John to Sherlock's grave. She dreaded the day she went to Flat B and found that she was too late to save John.

Then, just as suddenly, there was Mary. Mary who comforted John, Mary who spent more and more time at the flat, Mary who said that she was an old friend of John's but was obviously planning on using John's grief to get her claws into him.

Martha was shocked at the wave of anger that passed through her every time she saw Mary with John, and the easy smile that now graced John's face whenever Mary was near. Much as she loved John, she grew increasingly angry with him for his casual dismissal of Sherlock. The way he had begun to rebuild his life with his new girlfriend and his new job at the A&E, and all so soon after Sherlock had gone. She quietly simmered for months until one day she could take no more. Upon his return from an early shift at the hospital, she invited John into her flat for a cup of tea and a chat.

"Mrs Hudson, do you mind if we make this another time? I've had a bit of a day. There was a pile up on the West Way today and we took some of the casualties. It was frantic for a few hours and all I really want to do right now is have a shower and a few hours kip before I see Mary tonight."

"Yes, well, it was Mary I wanted to talk to you about. Don't you think it's a bit quick dear, after Sherlock I mean?"

John looked confused, then hurt and a little angry, before calming down and giving a weak smile.

"Mrs Hudson, please don't worry. Trust me. Mary is helping me keep it together after … you know. She'd kind and caring and good for me. We've been friends since Uni, and she's never been anything but supportive of me. And you know that I'm not gay. He is … was my friend and I miss him, but I have always liked women, you know that. Please don't let your anger at Sherlock colour your opinion of Mary. I'm sure that, if he were here he would like her. And I know if you got to know her you'd like her too. Hey, how about we go out for tea, the three of us, and you get to meet her properly?"

"Oh John, I'm sorry. It's none of my business who you date. And you're right, I am angry at Sherlock for being so selfish. He hurt all of us with his selfishness."

John looked pained and leant forwards to gently take Mrs Hudson's hands. "No, no. I don't believe he was selfish. I think he was put in an untenable situation by an evil man and did the only thing he could to protect people he cared about. Please don't think badly of him. If there had been any other way I'm sure he would have taken it. He'd never hurt you if he could help it, you know that."

"Yes John, I'm sure you're right. And you're right about Mary too. You need to move on with someone who cares for you. You deserve some happiness after all the pain you've seen. Of course I'll meet her. You sort it out and let me know."

John looked relieved and allowed himself a more genuine smile. "I'll book a table at Brown's Hotel for afternoon tea."

He embraced his landlady and surrogate mother in quiet relief, before taking his leave to shower and rest.

It was over that tea that Mrs Hudson accepted Mary. She was a lovely girl if somewhat self-contained and aloof. She didn't seem as open and demonstrative as John's previous girlfriends, but then, she'd lasted longer than any of them, and the way her eyes lit up when she looked at John caused Martha's heart to melt. The afternoon tea was delicious and, by the end, Martha was keeping her fingers crossed that this time John's relationship would work.

When Mary moved in to Flat B six months later, Martha was delighted. With Mrs Turner's prompting, she began hoping for the day when John told her that they were expecting. After all, neither John nor Mary were getting any younger and they would make lovely parents. She had got a little over excited once and suggested that they should move into the lower room so the upstairs bedroom could be a nursery. She'd got a strange look from John at that and was told quite firmly that that would not be necessary.

But still, she could still hope that one day she would be a grandmother, sort of.

But now, hearing Mary's angry ranting and tearful sobs, Martha Hudson realised just how wrong she had been. Her hands flew to her mouth as her eyes went wide with horror at the pain her careless comments and selfish desires had caused. She ran towards the couple on the sofa, falling to her knees before the anguished couple (her hip would hate her for that later).

"Oh my dears, I'm so sorry. Don't cry, I'm sorry. Please forgive a silly old woman, I didn't mean to upset you. Oh, I'm so sorry."

Sherlock stepped forward and eased the older lady to her feet and helped her over to John's armchair, leaving John to sooth the still tearful Mary.

"Mrs Hudson, I think maybe I should explain while John and Mary get themselves together. Do you understand what being asexual is?"

"Not really. I mean, I've heard the word on one of these wildlife documentaries but I though it applied to worms or something."

"It does in the animal kingdom, but humans can be asexual as well. But for us it means that we have no interest in sexual intercourse. Do you understand?"

"I think so. Like Catholic priests and nuns."

"Kind of, except in their case it is a conscious decision and is called celibacy. Asexuality is biological, something you are born as, just like homosexuality or heterosexuality. It's not a conscious decision or a lifestyle choice, it's just the way we are."

"Oh I see. Wait, you said we. Does that mean that you're … "

"Asexual? Yes, well sort of. It doesn't mean that we can't love or enjoy a romantic attraction to others, it's just that we don't like to be touched sexually."

"Alright. I understand. I think. So Mary is asexual and so are you? But what about poor John?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes realising that he was going to have to explain their relationship to their landlady to avoid future awkward questions and upsetting misunderstandings. Secretly hoping John and Mary would forgive him, he took a deep breath and began.

"Let me explain. As you know John and Mary are married. And I am in a romantic relationship with both of them."

Sherlock paused awaiting the outburst, but all he saw was a look of shining joy in his landlady's eyes before she waved her hand at him to encourage him to keep speaking.

"As you know I don't like being touched by many people, accept a few I have a close emotional bond to. This includes John, Mary, yourself and to a limited extent, DI Lestrade. I am attracted to men, but not in a sexual way. But I am romantically involved with both John and Mary. We cuddle and kiss and occasionally share a bed when one of us needs comfort. John met Mary at University … "

"Yes I know. Mary told me they were flatmates for years and she helped him sort out some problems. But they were just friends for years until they met up again."

"Yes, this is the case. Mary is also attracted to men and is also asexual. So no, there won't be any babies. But like all of us, she hates it when people force their own preconceptions on her. She's suffered it all her life, especially from her own mother who even now asks her when she will present her with grandchildren now she's married. Apparently one of her sisters is a veritable baby machine and is constantly held up to Mary as a role model. As if being a very successful doctor and expert in her field is not enough. Anyway, as you can appreciate, to then hear a similar comment from someone she is very fond of caused a strong reaction."

Mrs Hudson looked so contrite that Sherlock felt a pang of guilt, but she was strong and he knew, once she understood she'd fight tooth and nail for her little family.

"I'm so sorry. I'd never have said anything if I'd understood."

"Now, now Mrs Hudson, no need for tears. It will all be fine, now you understand. It's just our relationship is ours alone and all three of us guard it jealously. We get enough speculation in the press and at the Yard that we simply forgot to explain it properly to you: an unforgivable oversight on our part."

"Oh Sherlock, don't be silly. I should have realised, but I appreciate you're explaining it to me. And of course, my lips are sealed." She paused then as Sherlock watched the gears turn in her brain. He knew what was coming next and braced himself. "But Sherlock, what about John? You said you were in a relationship with both of them and I know he's not gay."

"Ahhh, no he's not gay, as he has reiterated on numerous occasions to anyone who is stupid enough to suggest otherwise. Very clever is our John, because his answer was entirely truthful. He is not gay. However, he is bisexual or more accurately biromantic. Mary helped him realise his asexuality when they flat-shared. It was how they became friends in the first place. It was Mary who helped John hold it together while I was away and between them they worked out, very accurately I must say, that I had survived and why I had to do what I did." Mrs Hudson saw the look of love and pride directed towards the two figures still holding each other on the sofa, and she felt a swell of maternal love for how Sherlock had grown and built a life for himself.

Returning his eyes to his landlady, Sherlock continued as though he had never paused. "I was so lucky when I returned. I only came back because I realised my own carelessness had put John in terrible danger. Mycroft had told me that John was in a serious relationship with Mary, but that they knew that I had survived and were awaiting my return. This news gave me a reason to keep fighting, but I was unsure how I would continue without John. Luckily my loves had already planned everything out as you've subsequently discovered, converting Flat C into my lab and office and preparing to welcome me back with open arms. I will admit, I feared losing John's affection, but like so many before me, I underestimated my blogger. To find two such wonderful people who love and accept me is …" Sherlock swallowed thickly as he again looked towards the sofa, unable to continue as he realised just how much he had gained and just how impossible that should be.

Mrs Hudson touched a hand to her boy's knee, happy tears shining in her eyes. "Thank you, for explaining. I'm so happy you've found two people who care for you so much. Now get over there and hold them. I'll go and put the kettle on for some tea, then I can apologise to Mary properly."

Sherlock smiled as he rose gracefully from his chair and joined his loves on the sofa, Mary instinctively turning her head into his shoulder and including him in their embrace.

While the kettle heated (having checked it was eyeball free), Mrs Hudson peeked round the doorframe and smiled happily as she studied the cuddle pile on the sofa. She would make tea, apologise to her boys and girl, and promise them her love and support.

* * *

Feedback is much appreciated. If I've got anything badly wrong please let me know


	5. Boredom and Mycroft

Sherlock contemplates his relationship with Mycroft and the ruse they employed to fool Moriarty, alluded to in 'Watersheds'.

* * *

Sherlock did not have a case of any merit for seventeen interminable days after returning from Paris. He was becoming increasingly fractious as he felt his mind spinning frantically with no new data to work on. He had solved some minor cases over the phone and online. None of them were more than a two. Three he'd solved whilst wrapped in a sheet and one whilst naked having just climbed, dripping, from the shower to answer the phone.

He'd walked into New Scotland Yard two days after their return to announce to the assembled idiots that he was back and available to save their sorry arses. All he got for his pains were silence and blank stares before everyone returned to whatever they were doing before he'd entered the floor in a swirl of Belstaff and fake bonhomie, ignoring him completely. Luckily Lestrade saved his blushes by calling him into his office, but only to invite Sherlock, John and Mary to dinner on Saturday night with himself and Molly.

"So, no case then?"

"No, no case that we need your help with anyway." Noting Sherlock's disheartened expression and complete lack of interest, Lestrade ushered him out of the office and walked with him to the lifts. "I'll keep an eye out for something you can get your teeth into, and I'll have a word with the other DI's in case they have something. I'll text John about the Saturday thing shall I?"

Sherlock perked up slightly. "Saturday?"

"Yeah, the meal. With Molly. And me. I told you, just now."

Sherlock's face closed off again as he lost interest in everything the DI was now saying. As the doors of the lift closed he began to feel the clouds of boredom encroaching on his mind. Lestrade shrugged and returned to his office and his own little slice of bureaucratic tedium.

As the days wore on, Sherlock took to texting Lestrade and Dimmock every few hours. At first he received polite replies, then one word rejections, and finally nothing at all.

He'd been over to the morgue at Bart's to see Molly. She'd been perky at first, hoping to chat to him about Paris, but she soon lost interest when he had no photos on his phone and no interest in discussing the places they'd visited. Unfortunately, she had no samples available for his use. No-one had left their body to science and there were no amputated limbs awaiting disposal. All she had was a fresh gall bladder that had been removed in surgery that morning. It was unremarkable and, as Sherlock prodded it lightly with a scalpel, he couldn't think of a single experiment that would be worth his time. Molly was in mid-sentence when Sherlock turned around and left, only remembering to shout a half-hearted "'bye Molly." over his shoulder as the morgue doors closed behind him.

It was John who finally broke the tedium.

John had already left for his early shift in A&E some hours before, and Mary was just disappearing out of the door, placing a peck on Sherlock's cheek as she collected her handbag and briefcase.

"Go and have a shower darling. It'll use up some time and some scalp massage might stave off that headache I can see beginning." Then she was gone.

Sherlock lifted his head from where it rested on the sofa arm. Mary was right, he could feel a headache forming, probably as much from the uncomfortable hardness of the sofa arm under his neck as from the tedium of his current existence.

Placing his feet on the floor and wrapping his dressing gown around him, he eased himself up and sat, poised to stand as he decided on how he would spend this day. He would, as Mary suggested, have a shower and enjoy massaging conditioner into his scalp. Then he would dress. Next, a check of his email and John's blog to see if any new cases had come in. Perhaps a visit to Mrs Hudson as the smell of fresh baking was making itself known and she always had samples to spare. Then, if all else failed, he would call Mycroft, just to see if his brother had any small job that required his assistance.

Making his way to the bathroom he pondered the relationship with his brother. Before Sherlock's return, John had only ever really seen the fractious, antagonistic act that the brothers had adopted soon after John moved in. When the cabbie, Jefferson Hope, had mentioned his sponsor and Sherlock's fan, and then had refused to name this mysterious figure except with his dying breath, Sherlock realised he was dealing with someone devious and powerful. Once John was tucked away in bed in the early hours of the morning, full of Chinese and an adrenalin crash, Sherlock had texted Mycroft:_everything you have on Moriarty – urgent_

_Diogenes Club 4pm. Will have what we know._

At 4pm on the dot Sherlock emerged from a taxi outside of the Diogenes Club, entering to be shown, silently, to Mycroft's private rooms. As the uniformed valet bowed to leave the room, Mycroft ordered a tray of tea to be delivered. Only once the door was closed, it's seal rendering the room soundproof, did Mycroft gesture to the wingback armchairs by the fireplace. Upon an occasional table next to the left chair rested a file and a usb stick. Mycroft gestured for his brother to take that seat.

"So, Moriarty." Mycroft's opening gambit in any negotiation rarely gave anything away.

Sherlock, picked up the file and perused the pages inside.

"Yes, my fan apparently."

"Ah." Mycroft's carefully controlled features gave nothing away, but his younger brother knew too well that there was deep concern in that simple exclamation.

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of a silver salver bearing a teapot, milk, sugar, and a bone china tea service. Silence reigned between the brothers, the only sound the rustling of the pages Sherlock turned as he digested the information they contained. Once the door shut again with a soft bump, Mycroft looked over at his brother.

"So."

"Yes, so."

"Unfortunately you appear to have attracted the attention of one of the most deadly criminal organisations. The leadership is somewhat nebulous, but increasingly the name 'Moriarty' has been associated with their crimes. It is strange. The organisation seems to have no specific interests, not drugs, people smuggling or prostitution, but seem to be involved in the whole gamut of criminal activities, often liaising with other criminal organisations to achieve their goals. You could say they are a criminal consultancy. The only common denominator is that the crimes are committed in complicated and devious ways, almost like someone is playing with the execution of the crime, one could almost say turning crime into art."

"So, an organisation of consulting criminals."

"Quite. And if you have attracted their attention this will not end well."

"No. And if they have intelligence on me, given the information in this file, I may well become a conduit to you. A totally unacceptable situation. I refuse to be your weakness."

"Yes, I had already discerned that possibility. I have a proposition that may remove myself from the dramatis personae, and without access to me this Moriarty's interest in you may diminish."

Sherlock steepled his fingers on his chin as his brother explained his plan: to exaggerate the perceived animosity in their relationship, using the antagonism to distance Sherlock from Mycroft's influence and protection.

"And what of your new flatmate?"

"He is a trained soldier, and I have no doubt is more than capable of taking care of himself, especially if you arrange a blind spot regarding his Browning. I do not believe he will be a point of pressure as I am renowned for being intolerable. My high functioning sociopath persona will prove useful. And, if you can increase your meddling in my life, we can use John's no doubt negative reaction to you to reinforce the image of antagonism between us."

By the time Sherlock was ready to leave the Diogenes Club, the brothers had devised a plan of action. Before opening the door into the corridor, Mycroft stepped forward and embraced the man in front of him, perhaps for the last time.

"Goodbye brother dear. Forgive my sentiment, but it is not lost on me that this may be the last time we can embrace for quite some time."

"I know brother. It is hateful that we must play this charade." The embrace ended and Sherlock turned to the door ready to commence the first stage of their new reality, and shatter the silence of the Club, breaking one of the golden rules of the Diogenes. With a final smile to his Brother, Sherlock transformed his face into a mask of rage and, as he threw the door open, screamed at his brother "… AND REMOVE YOUR FUCKING BUGS FROM MY FLAT, YOU BLOODY PARASITE!" then he stormed from the club, as the other members stared in silent shock at the passing wraith.

It was not until some years later, when the final part of Moriarty's web was demolished with the arrest of Moran, that Mycroft and Sherlock could acknowledge their previously close relationship. Mycroft was delighted that his brother now had two people in his life who loved and supported him. He accepted Mary and John as his sister and brother-in law, and had no problem accepting their somewhat unusual relationship, because it brought his brother such joy. He revelled in openly being part of his brother's life both domestic and vocational, supplying occasional problems large and small to keep the ennui at bay.

As Sherlock left his bedroom, making final adjustments to the belt in the waistband on his trousers he heard his phone chime where he had left it on the coffee table. The ring tone was John's.

A spike of fear shot through Sherlock as he rushed to the phone. John should be some two hours into his shift at University College Hospital A&E. He rarely texted when on duty, simply not having the time, and it was even more rare for him to initiate communication when he was at work.

Sherlock grabbed the phone up, opening the message from the man who held his heart.

_URGENT – call ASAP. Need your opinion – JW_

That John was asking Sherlock to call was unusual in itself, knowing Sherlock preferred to text.

Sherlock dialled the number immediately, impatient for more information. Almost immediately, John's slightly breathless voice answered his call.

"Sherlock, I need you here now. We've had a girl brought in, high on drugs and eviscerated. It's a bloody mess. She's in surgery now, but her survival is doubtful. DI Panesar thinks it's some sort of Sweeney Todd wanna be, but I'm not so sure. Something is off and I need you to look before the idiots ruin the evidence."

As Sherlock closed the call, promising to be in John's office within twenty minutes, his eyes sparkled and his lips twitched into a smile.

The game was on.


	6. Blood at Luigi's

**A/N: ****Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter up. It was quite complicated to research and write. As you may have gathered, I am in no way a medical professional so any errors are down to my poor research and rubbish info on the interweb. Be warned, it gets a bit gory.**

**At some point in the not too distant future I will reach the events of Chapter 1 and continue the story from there.**

**I'm not quite sure where the next chapter is going to take me. Any comments or suggestions would be appreciated.**

**Thank you for reading.**

* * *

Arriving at UCH just ten minutes later, Sherlock made his way directly to John's office. Opening the door he was greeted by a uniformed constable blocking his way.

"Oh, sorry Sir. Dr Watson said you were coming. This is a right mess." The constable stood aside to allow Sherlock access to the room before again blocking the now closed door.

"Constable Patterson isn't it. You were on the Thompson case. You found the glove in the drain. An excellent piece for observation."

John looked up in surprise at the exchange. It was so unlike Sherlock to treat any of the idiots in the Met with anything but disdain, but he obviously had seen something in this young officer that had piqued his interest. The PC in question was positively glowing with the praise, standing taller and more solidly than ever in front of the door.

And as quickly as it was there, Sherlock's interest in the young man switched off, turning instead to the evidence bags arranged on John's desk.

"Tell me."

John took a deep breath. "Young woman aged between 20 and 25, Mediterranean decent, brought in at 06:24 with major trauma to the abdomen and significant blood loss. Unconscious and tachycardic. Also suffering from an overdose, probably cocaine, later confirmed by blood test. Initial examination showed several incisions on her wrists and hands from a sharp blade, and a vertical incision from the xiphoid process of the sternum to the mons pubis. Her stomach had been dissected. Her intestines, large and small, were almost entirely removed. I cut away her clothing and placed it in evidence bags whilst she was prepared for emergency surgery. Prognosis is …" John paused and took a deep breath, rubbing his hand over his face. "Christ Sherlock, she'll need a bloody miracle to survive what some bastard has done to her, and even if she does live she'll need full medical support for the rest of her days. Her surgeon, Wilson, and his team are the best. But trauma like this, and the blood loss. They'll be lucky to get her stabilised." He shook his head, his eyes on the floor as he felt a great sadness for the girl who had briefly lain in his emergency room.

Sherlock nodded and grasped John's shoulders to acknowledge his distress and give some small measure of comfort even as the data flowed and organised itself in his mind. Releasing his partner and grabbing a pair of surgical gloves John had left in a dispenser on his desk, Sherlock began to examine the victim's clothes under the watchful eye of PC Patterson.

In the bags were bra and knickers, blouse and denim jacket. In another bag a denim skirt. One bag seems to contain blood soaked white towels and, in a separate bag, ankle high cowboy boots in a garish cacophony of colours. Sherlock's hand skimmed over the bags, gently flattening the plastic in places so labels and stains could be seen more easily. Fingers flew over his phone as he searched for manufacturer's names.

"Purse, handbag, phone, passport, ID, anything to identify her?" The question was thrown over his shoulder towards the PC, catching him off guard.

"Er, no sir. Not that I'm aware. DI Panesar is the person to ask about that. She's at the scene at the moment, but should be back within the hour."

"Where was she found?"

"Luigi's sir. The barber's on Drummond Street. Tony Cusano was opening up for the early morning trade at 6 a.m. when he found her in one of the chairs. He grabbed some towels to stem the bleeding while he called for paramedics. It was quite a shock for him, I can tell you."

Sherlock was well aware of Luigi's and had frequented the establishment on many occasions when he felt the need for some indulgence. It was famous as one of the few remaining traditional barber's in London, specialising in luxurious shaves with exquisitely sharp straight razors. If women went to have facials and manicures to feel pampered, the male equivalent was Luigi's.

-0-0-0-

Luigi Cusano had come over from Italy in 1953 as a young man in his early twenties. He needed to escape the confines of his own country and thought London was the place to create new roots. He brought the remains of his family's ancient fortune, such as it was after years of unrest and war, which he placed in the bank and carefully ignored for four years. Having been taught the art of the prefect shave by his father, he took a position as a trainee barber at the newly refurbished barber shop on Drummond Street, just behind Euston Station. It was owned by a spiv called Fred Barrett who'd made a small fortune on the black market during the war, and now ran a bookies out of the back room. Unfortunately for Fred, his criminal past caught up with him when he was glassed by a disgruntled punter in a pub on the Mile End Road.

By now Luigi was happily married to a lovely Italian girl called Maria who he had met at St Aloysius Roman Catholic church. Having begun to establish a reputation as an excellent and discrete barber and in need of an assured future for his burgeoning family, Luigi raided his bank account and bought the barber shop. He stocked it with the finest straight razors and shaving brushes he could find, he used only the best shaving creams and soaps, and found a selection of elegant aftershaves and oils. He purchased the highest quality towels he could afford, found an excellent local laundry that left his towels soft and pleasantly fragrant, and ensured that his leather chairs always reclined just so to give the perfect shaving position.

He laid off almost all of Fred's old staff. Most of them were petty criminals and Luigi would not tolerate that on his premises. The golden rule in his new establishment was that everyone was welcome but crime stayed at the door. Initially his customers were locals, gentlemen gangsters and senior coppers. Despite several attempts at coercion, nothing that was discussed at Luigi's ever left the premises, be it betting tips, stock advice or the latest City rumour. Slowly, as his name spread through the private rooms in pubs, clubs and board rooms, his clientele became business men and increasingly the upper classes. His customers appreciated the excellent shave, the quiet discretion of the staff and the relaxed conversations between barber and client when the most contentious question was "Something for the weekend sir?"

And so it remained. Luigi trained his son, Marcello, to take on the family business, and it thrived. The proximity to Euston station and the reputation for quality attracted a diversity of clients who enjoyed a little luxury to set them up for the day of high pressure negotiations, to survive that crucial board meeting, or for the evening of promise with an elegant companion.

-0-0-0-

Yes, Sherlock had spent many a pleasant afternoon after a trying case, his face wrapped in warm towels, before the application of lather, the frisson of three passes of that sharpened steel across his face and throat in the hands of a trusted master and finally the application of the lotion. Sherlock did not like to be touched, but Marcello and now Tony were trusted hands at the top of their craft and their shaves were perfection. For that to be sullied by the desecration of this poor girl angered Sherlock. The crime had to be solved, and quickly, not only for the still unnamed girl, but also for the Cusanos.

The phone on John's desk rang. He paled and his jaw tightened as he received the message imparted by the voice on the line. Sherlock recognised the voice giving instructions as that of Captain Watson. "Leave the operating room exactly as it is and the patient untouched and in situ. The police will need to get a team in. I'm coming down now. Has anyone contacted DI Panesar?"

The answer was obviously in the affirmative. John hung up the phone. Sherlock already knew the girl had not survived. John knew this and addressed his remarks to PC Patterson. "The patient has died in surgery. DI Panesar is on her way here now. I've ordered the theatre to be secured. We're heading down there now. Either you can stay up here and guard the evidence or you can come with us and I'll lock the door."

Patterson thought things over before coming to a decision. "Chain of evidence doctor. I'll stay up here and ensure nothing is tampered with. The crime scene is only a short distance away, so I'll radio in that you're heading down to the body and I'm sure the DI will be here shortly."

"OK Patterson. You've got my number so call or page me if you need anything." With that, they left the office, leaving the PC speaking into his radio to give an update to HQ.

John and Sherlock made their way towards the operating theatre where the girl's remains lay. Unusually it was John who led the way, his back straight and his fists clenched as he marched down the corridor, ever the soldier. Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Mary warning that this case was triggering some of John's anxieties. A brisk five minute march later they arrived beside the body of the unknown girl.

John took a deep breath to steady himself as he approached the bloody figure on the operating table, the detritus of surgery strewn on the floor.

"Wilson did the best he could. He would have been aiming to stabilise her, stop the blood loss and the secretion of fluids into the abdomen. Giving her any kind of quality of life would have been complicated and left for later surgeries, had she survived. It looks like he had cleaned up the worst of the contamination from her intestines, and that her other organs, liver, spleen, kidneys, were largely undamaged. Sepsis would have been a major concern. With this kind of trauma, Wilson knew going in he was likely to lose the patient, but he did it anyway. Good man."

With great care, he picked up the girls left wrist in his freshly gloved hands turning it gently so Sherlock could see the lacerations. "It's the same on both wrists and hands. Defensive wounds. Despite the cocaine she must have been conscious enough to realise what they were doing to her. And see here, on her abdomen. These shallow incisions look like hesitation marks. The final incision itself was excessive, as though they had no idea where the organs they were looking for were located in the body. Simply started at her bra and slashed down to her knickers." He stepped back and looked at her face, now peaceful in death. "Poor kid."

Sherlock looked closely at the incisions, not touching, merely observing. There was something in the stomach, he could just see. She had obviously crashed before they had got to suturing her stomach. He'd just asked John to pass him some forceps when the theatre door opened to reveal a whirlwind of anger.

"Who the _hell _are you and what are you doing with my body?"

John looked up just as he placed the forceps in Sherlock's gloved hand. "Ah, Detective Inspector. This is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is DI Panesar, recently transferred to the Met from Manchester."

Sherlock glanced at the DI and gave a brief nod before returning to the body. "I need an evidence pot. There is something here in the remains of the stomach. It's already highly degraded from the gastric juices. We need to collect it before it is lost."

The DI leapt forward. "Don't touch. I've heard about you and I'm not having you contaminating my evidence."

Sherlock bristled at the sleight, before taking a breath and passing the forceps to John. "Doctor, would you be so kind as to retrieve the evidence for the DI as I am not to be trusted."

Seeking the approval of the DI before proceeding, John carefully retrieved what appeared to be a miniscule piece of latex from the stomach. Apart from large quantities of pink antacid there appeared to be no other stomach contents.

Sherlock stepped back, stripped his gloves and began tapping on his phone. Placing the evidence in a sterile collection tub, John passed it to the DI. "The bagged evidence is all up in my office being guarded by Constable Patterson. The bags have not been opened since I sealed them immediately after they were cut from the patient. Other than that the patient has only been touched by medical staff trying to save her life. Unfortunately, her injuries were too extensive."

DI Panesar stepped forward to examine the body. "So, this is our Jane Doe."

"Juanita Doe would be more accurate."

DI Panesar's gaze snapped to the detective's. "What do you mean?"

Looking up from his phone and shoving it in his pocket, Sherlock turned towards the DI. John stepped back and watched as his partner let his brain fly over the facts he had observed and deduced.

"Young woman, not wealthy judging by her clothes and what remains of her makeup, but not poor either. Nothing ostentatious, just pleasantly normal looking. The kind of girl you would assume was a student or an au pair and largely ignore. Obvious Hispanic features, not Mediterranean as there is some South or Central American heritage there. Clothes are mainly from the US, but the underwear is from a retailer in Mexico City. So, Mexican. Her boots are well worn and comfortable: a favourite pair comfortable for travelling in. She has no ID or belongings other than the clothes she was wearing. And she arrived in A&E with a cocaine overdose and her abdomen sliced open and ransacked by people with no knowledge of anatomy. The final indicator is the empty stomach and the vast quantity of antacid she had ingested." Sherlock looked expectantly at the DI, who looked just as expectantly back at him.

John smirked as Sherlock gave an exasperated huff and continued with his deductions. "She's a drug mule obviously. A flight was due to land at Heathrow from Mexico City at 10:30 last night. It was delayed by bad weather over the Gulf of Mexico and didn't land until 1:54 this morning. By the time this young lady cleared customs and immigration it would no doubt have been somewhere around 3:30 am. She was obviously met by someone. By this time, the drugs she had swallowed were making themselves known, and she had been drinking antacid to prevent the balloons from being digested. The delay in the flight no doubt caused her and her contact great anxiety. There were emergency road works on the Western Avenue last night and a lorry shed its load in the road works causing significant delays for the traffic heading into central London. By the time the vehicle reached the Marylebone Road I suspect at least one of the balloons had ruptured causing her to show the symptoms of cocaine overdose. Her contact panicked and needed to get the rest of his drugs out of her as a matter of urgency. No point letting a significant quantity of cocaine be digested by a strung out mule. But where to perform this surgery? Ah, yes, Luigi's barbers on Drummond Street with its fully reclining seats and sharp cut-throat razors. They must have broken in through the back as the front is always securely shuttered. So, someone who knows Luigi's, since it was a detour off the main road to get there, yet not someone who knew that they opened at 7am for the early commuters. The now semi-conscious girl is carried in, her personal belongings remaining in the vehicle. She is placed in a barber's chair, her shirt opened and the first hesitant incision made. She revives long enough to try to fight her attackers off, see the defensive wounds on her wrists. Unfortunately she is unsuccessful and they make the incision into her abdomen. Not knowing where in her digestive tract the drugs are, they remove her small and large intestines in their entirety – a messy business. Then they slice open her stomach and rummage around to remove any balloons still lodged there. Once satisfied they have recovered their merchandise they leave the way they came, out the back, leaving the girl to bleed out in Luigi's chair. No doubt only minutes later, Tony Cusano opens up at the front and walks in to discover a young woman bleeding out in his barber shop."

DI Panesar looks thunderstruck, her mouth hanging slightly open as she listens to what Sherlock has deduced. John just shakes his head with a wry grin from his position leant against the instrument table. "Amazing as always, Sherlock."

Closing her jaw with a snap the DI tries to regain control of the situation. "Is that all then?"

Sherlock smirks, recognizing the comment for what it is. "Not quite. Given the route and the victim I'd say you're looking for two men: the son of a Mexican politician, businessman or drug lord, who is based in London, probably Islington given the route from Heathrow. Also his trusted body guard."

"So you think some Mexican drug cartel is trying to muscle in on London?"

"No, I think some wealthy and well connected father doesn't trust his play boy son's welfare with the drug suppliers over here. Too much risk of contaminated product or leverage. He probably sends a mule bearing high quality supplies for his son and entourage several times a year. Unfortunately for this young lady, the combination of bad weather, bad roads and bad luck lead to her death. Now, if we can go to the crime scene I can see what your team have missed."

Shaking her head in disbelief, DI Panesar stepped back, holding the door open for Sherlock and John to pass through. Leaving a PC to guard the operating theatre until the pathologist and forensics team could arrive, they headed up to John's office to check on Patterson, before walking the short distance to Drummond Street and Luigi's.

"Sherlock, I need to stay here and finish my shift. I can't abandon the team any more this morning. They've already had to do without me for nearly an hour. Make sure you text me if you need anything and on no account go running off without backup. Promise me."

"Yes John, of course. I'll text you when I'm finished and I'll see you and Mary later." And with a swirl of Belstaff, Sherlock stalked down the corridor.

DI Panesar turned to John, a look on her face like she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "Is he always like that?"

John grinned. "Yeah. And he's brilliant. Don't listen to all the gossip at the Yard. If you really want to know if he'll do you any good talk to Lestrade and Dimmock. And don't let anyone tell you he's a psychopath, because he really isn't. I should know, I've lived with him for years."

"Are you coming Detective Inspector?" echoed down the corridor in a terse baritone.

DI Panesar shook John's hand. "Pleasure to meet you Doctor. I'd better get going. Thanks for the advice. I'll call you to arrange a time for your statement and I'll send someone to help Patterson get this evidence back to the Yard." And with that, DI Noor Panesar walked sedately down the corridor, not giving the Consulting Detective the chance to see her dashing after him.

John smirked to himself. "Well played Detective Inspector. You're going to do just fine."

-0-0-0-

Arriving at the scene, Sherlock headed straight for Luigi's rear door. An inspection of the lock with his pocket magnifier showed evidence of an attempt to pick it. Stepping inside, the simple alarm system had clearly been disabled.

"Ahh, so our bodyguard has skills." Sherlock smirked.

"What do you mean, skills? And why do you think it's the bodyguard?"

"Simple, my dear Inspector. There is no reason why some over indulged play boy should have knowledge of breaking and entering. And don't forget, they were in a hurry. This had to be done by someone who could get them in quickly and quietly. Leaving evidence of their access wasn't an issue, but not being disturbed was a priority and an alarm certainly would have caused a disturbance."

Sherlock moved forward into the barber shop. He noted the rack where the towels had been grabbed, the hooks where the barbers' personalised work jackets hung, and the drawer where the straight razors were stored. Also, the box of polypropylene gloves used by the barbers when colouring hair.

"They used gloves, and Marcello's jacket is missing so they at least made an effort to keep blood off themselves."

Addressing the forensics techs in the room, DI Panesar bellowed "Get shots of all of this back room including the gloves and the overalls. Dust everything in here for fingerprints, especially the glove box and the razor drawer."

Moving to the row of six reclining chairs, only the one nearest the back room was awash with blood. Sherlock felt a quiet relief that the girl had not died in Marcello's chair. Marcello and Tony always used the two chairs at the front of the shop. Sherlock felt a sadness that, after all the years the Cusanos had kept to Luigi's golden rule, crime stops at the door, someone had brought not just crime, but cold-blooded murder into this haven.

"Make sure you check all the blood both here and on the victim. Using a straight razor is a dying art, and holding them is not easy. Marcello keeps his razors well stropped and deadly sharp. I suspect it was the body guard who carried out the evisceration, and I have no doubt he cut himself in the process."

DI Panesar waved her hand at the blood. "You heard the man. Somewhere in this mess is the blood of our killer. Find it."

Sherlock stood and addressed the DI directly to her face for the first time. "You'll want to secure CCTV footage from Heathrow. They will have been discreet but not furtive after all they had done this many times before and were simply collecting a passenger. It was not until later that they became desperate. Check previous flights from Mexico City for the same vehicle and driver. They'll have done this several times before. Also, have a word with Marcello and Tony Cusano. See if they remember a Central American play boy type who would have come in once, maybe twice over the last year. He'll have come during the day, most likely late afternoon, to experience the shave and no doubt to impress the latest girl-friend. He'll have been accompanied by his body guard, who would have declined the shave and hovered close to his charge throughout, especially when the blade was being used."

DI Panesar scribbled notes into her book. "Will do Mr Holmes. And thank you. Maybe you're not as much of a pain in the arse as I was lead to believe. "

Sherlock smirked back. "No, I really am. Just ask Lestrade."

As Sherlock made to leave the shop via the front door, he turned back to the DI. "I'll come in to give a statement with John. And, if you need me in future, feel free to text. I think you'll do very nicely."

Watching the mad man walk away, Noor could only smile and shake her head, thinking "This could be interesting. I'd better talk to Lestrade before I get in too deep." Then she turned back to her team, running her eye over the collection of evidence as she called back to the Yard to request CCTV footage from Heathrow, passenger lists and any CCTV from along the route, and to add Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson to the list of witnesses.


	7. Noor meets Greg and Sally

It was early afternoon when Noor Panesar made it back to the Yard leaving her team to finish up at the barbers and the hospital. PC Patterson had safely escorted all the evidence bags from John's office back to the Yard, and Noor now added the tub of latex fragment to the list of evidence to be painstakingly examined and analysed.

On her way back to her office, she'd stopped off at a sandwich bar to grab a cheese salad baguette and a coffee before completing the journey to her new office building. She'd only transferred from Manchester three weeks ago, feeling thrilled to join the Murder/Major Investigation Team after five successful years in the Greater Manchester Police Serious Crimes Division. She was very lucky that her Chief Superintendent had backed her transfer and given her a glowing endorsement after she'd been forced to relocate to London for her husband's work.

She'd struggled at first in the white male dominated world of Serious Crimes, especially as a married Sikh woman. Of course they'd started off taking the piss and trying to intimidate her into moving on, giving her all the crap jobs whilst being discretely racist and sexist: even this bunch of misogynistic troglodytes knew they couldn't openly discriminate without incurring the wrath of the higher ups and the 'bleeding hearts' at the Home Office. And she'd made it very clear the first time she'd found herself abandoned in a darkened warehouse with a knife wielding crack head that she was not taking any bullshit from anyone, certainly not the drug addled addict who was carted away with a broken wrist, dislocated shoulder and concussion, and most definitely not from her 'colleagues' who'd laughingly abandoned her to her fate. When she'd walked back into the office, nursing an ice pack on her bruised knuckles and a rakish smile on her face she'd sent the very clear message that she wasn't taking anyone's shit. Taking out her baton and slowly wiping it clean with a tissue (only a smattering of blood from the bloke's wrist, but she made it look good) whilst sitting back in her chair, feet resting on her desk was perhaps the final part of the hard arse image she was successfully projecting to her new work mates. The fact that she'd been terrified and was still shaking inside was something she would save for later, when she finally sank into a hot bubble bath surrounded by candles and wrapped in the arms of her beloved Adarshpal sobbing on his shoulder as she finally addressed the horrors of the day.

After that display, it didn't take much more to get her new colleagues trained. In the end, their final act of male defiance was to refuse to invite her to the pub for post case drinks. Not that she minded, since she never touched alcohol anyway. Let the little boys have their testosterone time. As long as they let her get on with her job and showed her a grudging respect she could cope.

And now she was in London, working for the Metropolitan Police and based at the iconic New Scotland Yard. Not that the building itself was anything special, looking like any other glass fronted office block, but that revolving triangle outside, that did something to her, making her swell slightly with pride knowing she was following in the footsteps of some of the best detectives in the world.

Exiting the lift, her mind already planning her tasks for the afternoon, she was surprised to hear a voice behind her, calling her name. Turning, she was confronted by the slightly dishevelled form of the newly promoted DCI Greg Lestrade heading back to his own office bearing one of the appalling excuses for a cup of coffee from the vending machine.

"Afternoon Panesar. Just the person I needed to see. My office, as soon as you've got a minute."

"Yes sir. I'm free now if you give me a minute to lose my coat and hand off this evidence."

"OK. See you in 10 then. Bring your coffee and sandwich if you want. I don't stand on ceremony and know how easy it can be to miss a meal." And with a friendly grin he continued to his own office.

Ten minutes later, DI Panesar was sitting on the sofa in DCI Lestrade's new office, munching her baguette.

"So, settling in?"

"Think so Sir."

"How's your slasher case going?"

"Well Sir. Lots of leads." Lestrade raised his eyebrows in surprise at this, not expecting this type of case to generate much clear evidence initially. Random killings always were a bastard to start with.

"I went over to University College Hospital this morning to see the deceased and bumped into one of our Consultants. Apparently he'd been called in by the A&E doctor who'd triaged the girl."

Lestrade's look of surprise quickly disappeared and a half smile appeared on his face. "That would be Dr John Watson, and the consultant was Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes sir"

"What did you think? Of Holmes I mean."

"Much as I'd been led to believe by Sergeant Donovan. Rude and arrogant. He told me himself that he's a pain in the arse. But he's obviously brilliant. Spotted several things it would have taken a while for us to get on to, or may have missed altogether. He,err … discovered a fragment of latex in the victim's stomach. By the time we'd got to her it probably would have been totally degraded. He's given me a whole new direction to go in which I'm pursuing as soon as I get back to my desk. He thinks this isn't random and that she was a drug mule delivering personal supplies to some rich kid based in London. Obviously I'll keep pursuing the random slasher angle, but the logic of this new direction makes sense. "

Lestrade nodded as she explained the events of the morning, before looking at her with a sly smile. "Did he deduce you?"

Noor looked blankly at the DCI, not understanding the question. "Oh, so he didn't. Be prepared, he will one day especially if you piss him off. You see, he _observes_ and what he doesn't observe he deduces. He can tell you your life's history in pretty much a glance from the last time you had sex, and who with to what you had for breakfast. I've no idea how he does it, I just know that he does. If he likes you he'll keep what he knows quiet, but if you cross him he will deduce you fully and loudly in front of anyone in the area. The uniforms love it, best entertainment they get on a crime scene. It's us plain clothes that are the ones who mainly attract his ire. Which brings me on to Sergeant Donovan."

"Sir?"

"I'm assigning her to your team as your bagman. She's great at organising and analysis of evidence. And her admin skills have saved my arse on more than one occasion. You need experience at bringing on a junior officer and she needs someone who can help her get the promotion to DI that she's long overdue. I think working for a, if you'll excuse the phrase, woman of colour who has no doubt experienced many of the same prejudices but has overcome them will do her good. "

Noor mulled over her interactions so far with Sgt Sally Donovan. Apart from the odd meeting at the vending machine or in the canteen, the main one had been when they'd bumped into each other in the Ladies and she'd let rip with her obvious dislike for Sherlock Holmes, warning Noor off and calling the Yard Consultant a freak and a psychopath.

"OK Sir. Anything I need to know?"

"I want you to make up your own mind about how to proceed, but you've mentioned she's already spoken to you about Sherlock Holmes. I'm guessing that it was nothing good." Noor nodded her assent, but remained silent.

"You see, Sherlock started consulting for me unofficially some years ago. He was terrible then, really out of control with all the social graces of a baboon. He had no regard for procedure and deduced everyone who got in his way. Also, it was not unusual for him to show up high. Don't get me wrong, he's not an addict. John explained to me that his brain just takes in data all the time and the only way he had to manage it then was with cocaine." Noor looked shocked. "Don't worry, he hasn't used in years and is much better now he has regular cases to keep his mind stimulated, but back then he was a bit of a loose cannon. Sally Donovan transferred to my team not long after and to say she was shocked is an understatement. All she saw was a posh, entitled, white bloke swanking round the crime scene calling everyone idiots and traipsing over the evidence. He embodied everything she hated and she made no secret of it. Of course Sherlock immediately deduced every secret of her life very loudly in front of her new colleagues. And Sally Donovan has had a hard life, so it wasn't pretty. She's worked damn hard for everything she's got and I'm proud of her. I'm just sorry I couldn't help her to get rid of her blinkers. She can get quite single minded about some things and once her mind is made up, nothing and no-one can divert her. It's held her back, and, if she's honest with herself, she probably realises it, but nothing I've done or said has seemed to get through to her. I'm hoping that you'll have more luck."

At that moment, Lestrade's mobile pinged with a new message. He gave it a quick look and a twitch of a smile before returning the phone to his desk.

"And what about our Consulting pain in the arse? Think you can work with him?"

"Yes Sir. I think so."

"Good, because his help is invaluable. Both he and Dr Watson are fully accredited consultants and can be called in to any crime scene, although Sherlock will tell you pretty quickly if he's not interested. He has this scale of interest on crime scenes and won't show up for anything less than a 6 unless he's really bored. He does have right to refusal to attend, so don't think you can order him to turn up, although sometimes a bit of gentle persuasion works. John is his partner, medical expert and backup. Be aware, John is usually armed. He's fully licensed and knows what he's doing being ex-army, so don't worry about it, and he only shoots if he has to. Watch out for Sherlock. His fingers are as quick as his brain and he will happily lift ID and evidence 'for the case'. If anything does go walkabout, just ask John and he'll get it back to you. Generally they don't do anything to compromise a case, but if Sherlock does play the arse don't be afraid to call him on it. If you're having Sherlock on a scene it's best to have someone videoing him. His deductions are so fast, things can get lost. Also, after the whole fake detective thing a few years back, some defence barristers still think they can get away with bringing that up in court even though it was proven to be bollocks. Having a recording of him at the crime scene prevents claims of evidence tampering or fabrication as well as helping with your case notes. Make sure the boys do all their paperwork as well, preferably as soon as possible. And if you get a text asking for backup make sure you get there PDQ. You'll either find John sitting on the handcuffed suspect, or one or both of them in need of an ambulance, or an Armed Response Unit." Lestrade finished with an affectionate smile, which surprised Noor considering they sounded a handful.

"So DI Panesar, anything else you need to know? My door is always open, so don't be afraid to ask."

"No, I think that's all Sir. I assume I'm taking Donovan straight away."

"Yes. Give me an hour or so to let her know and I'll send her in to you."

"And Sir. Should I be aware of anything … personal between Mr Holmes and Dr Watson? I don't want to inadvertently ruffle feathers."

"Ahh, that thorny question. What you need to know is that they are best friends and flatmates. Have been for about six years now, give or take, including fake suicides. They are totally committed to each other and neither will stand any threat to the other. John Watson is happily married to a Professor of Tropical Diseases called Mary and the three of them live together, along with their equally batty but adorable landlady, Mrs Hudson at 221B Baker Street. As to whether there is anything sexual between them, I think the answer is no, but don't for one second think that there isn't an intense love there. Everyone can see it, but we've learned not to talk about it. Anything else you need to know?"

"No, I don't think so. Will Donovan be able to help getting access to CCTV at Heathrow and along the route into London?"

"Yes. Sherlock's suggestion?"

"Yes Sir."

"Good. He's probably right. Jammy bastard usually is. Oh, and he likes you, god help you." Lestrade said, grinning.

Noor was confused. "Sir?"

Greg held up his mobile for the DI to see the text message now displayed on the screen. '_She is adequate – SH'_

-0-0-0-

Noor was sitting at her desk having got her team working on traffic cam footage along the route from Heathrow. Tony and Marcello Cusano were coming in later that afternoon to give formal statements and had been asked to bring their customer records. The evidence found so far had all been logged and was now being processed, and the post mortem was scheduled for the next morning.

So far a door to door in the area around the barbershop had, unsurprisingly, turned up nothing. The next step was to contact Heathrow to go through their passenger lists and CCTV footage.

A knock on the door made Noor look up to see Sgt Sally Donovan stood in her doorway.

"Ahh, Sgt Donovan. I take it DCI Lestrade has spoken to you. Come in and sit down."

Donovan looked far from happy with the situation. She'd worked with Lestrade for years, and had hoped to reap the rewards of his being promoted to DCI. That she was now reporting to the newest DI in the unit was not a good sign and made her feel that she was being overlooked. Again.

"I thought I'd set up some ground rules as you're my bagman for the foreseeable future."

Sally tried not to wince at the word 'foreseeable'. Her future was beginning to look very shaky, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out what she had done wrong. Why had Lestrade dumped her after all these years and why was she being palmed off on the proby DI?

"As you know, I'm working on this Jane Doe murder case."

"The slasher case?"

"Possibly. I'm not ruling out a random attack, but from the leads Mr Holmes gave me this morning, it's very possible it's something very different."

At the mention of Sherlock bloody Holmes Sally's anger began to rise. "The freak? When did he get involved? Listen Ma'am, don't believe a word he says. He's a bloody psychopath …"

Noor Panesar took a breath and raised her hand. "Enough. Sgt Donovan, Mr Holmes is a fully accredited consultant with the Metropolitan Police. I will not have any of my officers behaving in any way but with professional courtesy to their colleagues, be they serving officers, forensics techs or consultants. Are we understood?"

Sally fought back the bile in her throat. "Yes Ma'am."

"As a matter of fact, I witnessed his work today at University College Hospital. He was very thorough and professional. He has given me some useful insights on the case and some interesting leads to pursue. Which is why I want you to get access to passenger lists and CCTV footage for Heathrow airport and its surrounding car parks and access roads. We're specifically looking for our victim on a flight that arrived from Mexico City in the early hours of this morning, and the man or men who collected her."

"Yes Ma'am."

"And if this lead pans out, I'll need a couple of officers with sharp eyes going over as much footage as they have on previous flights from Mexico. Maybe see if we can lay hands on some facial recognition software. Holmes believes this is a regular thing, with drug mules coming in to supply a local play boy. He says the delay of last night's flight and the road works on the Western Avenue resulted in the accidental overdose when a balloon ruptured in the girl's stomach. Until we have corroboration, I'm not accepting this as the only possible interpretation, but it certainly is the best fit for the available evidence at the moment."

"Yes Ma'am." Sally felt despondent. Not only was she now bagman for a junior DI, but the woman had been suckered into believing the freak's bullshit. As she got up to leave, DI Panesar called her back.

"Sally, a moment longer. I know you've got issues with Holmes, and I know how hard it is to be a woman, especially a black woman, in this sea of testosterone. You've got to pick your battles and be single minded about the right things. At the moment, I think you're allowing your own prejudices to colour your judgement and that's not doing you any favours. The way I work is to follow the evidence logically and to try not to let assumptions prejudice my decisions. I have enough prejudice in my life without adding to it. DCI Lestrade allocated you to me because he thinks we can do each other good. And my goal is to help you get to where you want to be, but first of all we need to get those blinkers off and that temper sorted. Disrespecting other professionals only makes you look unprofessional. So think about what you need from me to help you get through this. My door is always open and I'm sure DCI Lestrade is also happy to help any way he can."

Seeing the look of anger and shame on Sally's face Noor felt a pang of pity for the woman who had fought so hard, but couldn't see that sometimes she was her own worst enemy. "Anyway, let's get back to work Sergeant. And think over what I've said. I'm as much here to help you as you are to help me."

As Donovan left her office, Noor gave a sigh and sank back in her chair, hoping that the initial discussion had not gone as badly as she thought. Shaking herself, she sat back upright and began going through the crime scene photos of the barber shop, trusting that Donovan would get on with her job and find the evidence she needed at Heathrow.


	8. Ximena and Gulpari

Having completed his sweep of the crime scene with the barber's shop and updated DI Panesar on his findings, Sherlock spent a fruitless thirty minutes scouring the alley behind the shops for any clue. To his chagrin, none of his homeless network appeared to have been in the area that night, and it was unlikely that anyone else would have seen anything in the early hours of the morning.

With a final sweeping gaze over the scene, no busy with police and the forensic team, Sherlock began the short walk back to Baker Street. Arriving just after midday, he decided to tidy the kitchen in preparation for John's anticipated arrival after his shift. He knew John would be anxious and emotional after the morning's events. Sherlock had already warned Mary that tonight could be bad and she had texted back that she would detour via the supermarket to pick up comfort foods. Even so, Sherlock did the washing up and wiped down the kitchen table.

Since his return, Sherlock had been using Flat C for his experiments, his office and consulting room, so generally the kitchen in Flat B was clear of noxious smells and experiments, and the fridge was clean and free of potential contaminants. Sharing a flat with two doctors, one of whom was an expert in tropical diseases, had forced Sherlock to adhere to more rigid hygiene protocols. Nevertheless, Sherlock still kept a microscope in the kitchen to allow for the analysis of samples in the comfort of his own home. Many a pleasant evening was spent with Mary and John reading whilst Sherlock made copious notes about the contents of his slides.

Wanting to make sure that he was aware immediately of John's return, Sherlock collected samples and notes, perched on his stool at the kitchen table and resumed his analysis. His current project was a map of the contaminants of London based upon finger nail scrapings. With the help of samples from his homeless network, his analysis was proving interesting and could help locate the regular haunts of both criminals and victims. So far he'd found increased diesel particulates near the stations north of the river, and unsurprisingly, pollen near the parks and other landscaped areas.

It was the sound of the front door opening that roused him from his work. He'd become so absorbed that he had not noticed how much time had passed. The sound of Mary, struggling up the stairs with shopping stirred him to action as he held the kitchen door open and relieved her of one of the straining bags.

"Afternoon sweetie. Get a brew on while I put this away." And with a light kiss to his lips, Mary turned away to start tidying away her purchases. Sherlock turned, emptied the kettle and filled it with cold water, and, replacing it on its stand, switched it on to boil. As he collected mugs from the cupboard and tea bags from the caddy he replayed the afternoon in his mind. Had John come home and he'd missed him? No. John's coat was not on the hook, his shoes were missing and his briefcase was not resting against the wall. No, John had not been home.

"Where's John?" Bright blue eyes looked at Sherlock expectantly as Mary turned from putting the new bottle of milk in the fridge and removing the opened one for their tea.

"I don't know. He hasn't been back. I was analysing some slides, but I would have noticed if he had returned. He was due to finish his shift at 1:30. Even if he was caught up in paperwork he should have been home by 2:30 at the latest."

"You're text said to expect a danger night. Care to explain?"

"A girl was brought in to A&E this morning. John triaged her and called me. She was a drug mule and had been eviscerated by her employer to recover his shipment. She did not survive surgery. In the normal course of events this is nothing unusual. John has seen worse during our investigations and, no doubt, during his time in the RAMC. However, there was something about his reaction. He was more … emotional. There was a tightness around his mouth and eyes, a slight frown, a stiffness to his shoulder and a flexing of his left hand. Nothing significant in themselves, but together they indicated a certain disquiet. I fear something he saw has triggered unpleasant memories and he may have a hard time of it over the next few days."

Mary shook her head and cuddled her mug of tea to her chest. "Well none of us are strangers to nightmares and we've all got our ghosts. I got him his favourite sausages for dinner, plus I managed to get hold of a savoy cabbage. I dropped some suet along with a bag of flame raisins in to Mrs Hudson and asked her to whip up one of her glorious spotted dicks, so comfort food is taken care of. Now all we need to do is work out where he's taken himself off to ruminate. Do you think he might have dropped in to the Euston Tap for a beer?"

"I don't know. Possibly. Or maybe the Green Man. I'll call the Tap and you call the Green Man to see if he's been in."

Ten minutes later and they had confirmation that the staff at neither pub remembered serving John that day. A call to the hospital had confirmed that John had left at around two, but that his brief case was still in his office. Sherlock placed a quick call to DI Panesar. He did not expect John to have gone to the Yard, but it was worth checking just in case.

"No Mr Holmes, I've not seen Dr Watson since this morning. I did want to book an appointment for you both to come in and give your statements. Is tomorrow morning about ten OK? Oh, and I should thank you. You were right. Immigration at Heathrow were able to confirm our victim's ID as Ximena Mendez. She arrived on the delayed flight from Mexico City as you suspected. I've got two of my team heading to Heathrow now to review CCTV to identify who she contacted. I've notified the DCI and Chief Super that our victim is a Mexican National and recommended we hold fire on contacting the Mexican Embassy to locate and notify her family, just in case it also tips off the killer. I don't like doing it, but one day won't make any difference to her, and it may be enough to allow us to get justice for her. I don't know how the top brass will play this, but as long as I've got time to do my job I'll be happy. I've also let the drug boys know, but they're happy to leave it with me for the moment. I think it was the mention of entrails and evisceration that put them off." Sherlock mouth quirked into a slight smile at the sound of the DI's wry laugh down the phone.

"You've done well Detective Inspector, getting an ID so quickly. Please let me know if there is any other assistance I can give you. I will see you tomorrow morning, as you request. Until then." And he ended the call, his brain immediately switching back to the problem of locating John Watson.

Sherlock knew John had left the hospital at two leaving his brief case locked in his office. Whilst he would occasionally leave his briefcase overnight if he was due a shift the next day, he was not due in to the hospital for the rest of the week, so under normal circumstances he would have brought it home. His atypical action only confirmed what Sherlock had already deduced: these were not normal circumstances.

As was his wont when called for an early start, John would not have eaten breakfast until he arrived at the hospital. Given that the victim did not arrive until nearly two hours into his shift, John should have had time to eat. A quick check on the online news sites showed no unusual accidents or incidents, so there should have been no emergencies above and beyond the normal accidents of everyday life. Depending on how busy the A&E was, John should have had time for a rest break and lunch. But, John in this mood would not have eaten. When triggered, John could become so lost in his work that eating and drinking would be forgotten. He had left later than usual, but had not gone to either of his usual pubs nor to the Yard and had certainly not come home. Leaving his briefcase suggested he wanted to be unencumbered, so was no doubt planning to walk. Regents Park was therefore the most likely destination, rather than the bustling streets of London on a sunny day.

Grabbing his coat, Sherlock made to leave the flat. He called back to Mary who was just coming down the stairs from changing in the upstairs bedroom. "I'm going to the Park to find him. I'll call when I know anything. You might want to change the sheets on your bed. I suspect both of us will be needed tonight."

Mary nodded in acknowledgement. Worry wrinkled her forehead and pinched her lips, but determination made her eyes bright. "When you find him, tell him I love him and I'm waiting here for him."

"Of course." And with that Sherlock strode purposefully down the stairs and out of 221B onto Baker Street, turning towards Outer Circle and the nearest entrance to Regents Park. John was in trouble and he needed the love of both his partners to bring him back.

-0-0-0-

John stood on the bridge, staring at the water, his forearms bearing the imprint of the parapet where he had rested his weight on them for so long. He'd walked slowly after leaving the hospital, his mind fogged by the morning's events, his feet leading him in no particular direction, his subconscious determined to get him away from the bustle of the city. Approaching a sandwich shop, John's brain had led him inside to order an indeterminate sandwich, a cardboard cup of hot drink and a small banana which he had shoved unthinkingly into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. His purchase paid for and clasped in unfeeling hands he had left the shop and again let his feet and subconscious lead him where they would. He must have drunk his hot drink, whatever it had been, because when he finally returned to awareness, leaning on the parapet of the bridge, staring at the ducks and swans, the cardboard cup was long cold and empty. A bag was balanced on the parapet next to his left elbow. Curious, he opened the paper bag to discover he had apparently ordered hummus in pitta bread. His subconscious choice of sandwich and his lack of memory of arriving in this spot told him all he needed to know about the state of his mind. He'd known that he had been shaken by the events of the morning, but had not realised by just how much. Now, as he contemplated events, he fed his sandwich to the ducks in the water beneath him.

Sherlock spotted his quarry at twenty three minutes to five, leaning on the parapet of Longbridge. Having entered the park by Clarence Gate, Sherlock had made his way along the west side of the boating lake toward the Hanover Bridges, before crossing back and heading towards the Inner Circle. Having spent so long in the desert, John was often attracted to the relative serenity of the park with its green expanses, lush vegetation and cool water. It was therefore no surprise and a great relief to find him leaning on the bridge in total stillness, an empty paper bag screwed up tightly in his left hand, and an empty cardboard coffee cup at his feet. What worried Sherlock most was the slight bulge in John's jacket at the small of his back. John's gun was securely at home, in the safe installed in his bedroom for that purpose. So what was in the waistband of John's trousers and what did it say about his state of mind?

Approaching calmly, his features schooled into friendly neutrality, Sherlock joined the man still staring vacantly at the lake. What could he say? "Where the hell have you been? Found you. Don't wander off again. Why didn't you come home? You should have called. You scared me."

Instead, Sherlock placed a hand on John's left shoulder giving a gentle squeeze and said simply "Her name is Ximena Mendez." And listened with relief as John breathed in deeply and released the tension in his fist, the screwed up bag falling unheeded to the ground.

Sherlock stooped to retrieve the paper, pushing it into his pocket before it could blow onto the lake. Turning, he mirrored the position of the man beside him, folding his arms and resting them on the parapet.

The silence stretched on for several more minutes before John began to speak, his voice hushed into tones of schooled neutrality, but loud enough for his companion to hear not only his words, but the underlying pain.

"That's not the first abdominal wound I've dealt with. As a trauma surgeon in a war zone you see them all the time. IED's, mines, bullets, shrapnel, you'd be surprised how many different ways there are for someone's guts to end up on the ground. And I've probably dealt with them all."

Silence descended again for a few minutes. John continued to stare across the lake and Sherlock remained intensely attuned to his companion. He heard the gentle splash of tears into the water of the lake. He felt the subtle tremor in his companion's body. When John began speaking again, his voice trembled with suppressed emotion.

"We had a lot of spare time at camp. It was either madness or tedium with very little in between. One of our translators, Hamasa, offered to teach us Pashto and Dari so we could talk to our patients. It's always useful to ask where it hurts or what the symptoms are and get first hand feedback. Of course to start with we needed to learn the grammar, so we started making it a game. We'd pick phrases we were all familiar with and translate them, with Hamasa's help, into both languages. We did nursery rhymes, poems, song lyrics, all sorts. Can you imagine, 'Stairway to Heaven' in Pashto. Then Danny Fielding, one of the nurses, suggested 'The Lord's Prayer'. His family were Baptists, so I suppose it made sense. He pointed out it was non-denominational so after a bit of ribbing we agreed. We had a hell of a time trying to explain 'trespass' to Hamasa, but in the end we managed. And then we went on to translate 'Summer Nights' from 'Grease'." John wiped at his eyes and took a steadying breath before continuing.

"We were on patrol. We were to make contact with the head man of a village to gain intelligence on local insurgent activity. I was there to offer medical aid as required. A hearts and minds exercise, as the Americans liked to call it. I'd give a few vitamin shots to the kids, check for and treat any minor illnesses and injuries, take the blood pressure of the pregnant women where I was allowed, that sort of thing. We'd walked through the pass and were heading along the road towards the village when we heard an explosion followed by screaming. It was obviously an IED somewhere ahead of us. When we reached the scene there was a local woman huddled by the road side in hysterics. Turns out her daughter had triggered the IED. Everything below her knees was gone, what remained of her legs were shredded and she sustained catastrophic injuries to her abdomen. The force of the explosion had thrown her backwards, breaking her spine, so she wasn't feeling much pain, despite still being conscious. She was mostly responding to her mother's screams."

John drew in another deep breath and rolled his shoulders. "It was obvious there was nothing I could do. The blood loss was already terminal, even if I had blood with me for a transfusion. The damage to her abdomen was also beyond repair. All I could do was make her comfortable. I gave her mother a shot of benzodiazepine to calm her down and asked her if we could send someone to the village to fetch the child's father. Then I sat with them. Gulpari had her head in her mother's lap. Her eyes were wide with fear, but were swimming in and out of focus. I stroked her forehead to sweep her hair away from her eyes. She said "Please." It broke my heart. I smiled at her, took her tiny blood covered hand in both of mine and then, for no apparent reason began reciting 'The Lord's Prayer' to her in Pashto. I don't know why. I s'pose I remembered Danny's words: 'It's non-denominational'. I'm glad we worked out trespass. It was the last word she heard before she died." Another pause, another sigh and a clenching and unclenching of his left hand. "A few minutes later half the village turned up lead by a few of our lads and the head man. They'd brought a blanket and a shawl. I managed to disentangle the mother as gently as I could, then I gently manoeuvred her remains onto the blanket to carry her back to the village, covered in the shawl. Four of us carried her back, one on each corner of the blanket. I was a horrible little procession. Her mother was being consoled by some of the women. From what I could understand, her father was trading in Kabul and not due back till the next day. As a bridge-building exercise the whole thing worked brilliantly. Apparently the British were always welcomed in that village. But that that poor child lost her life … it haunted me. Her eyes, so wild with fear, as she tried to hold on to life, and her mother begging me to save her daughter when there was nothing I could do. I've never felt so helpless, until this morning, when they brought her in. And this time it wasn't an accident or an indiscriminate act of terrorism. It was a deliberate decision that a human life was worthless when compared to a bag of white powder. And they didn't even kill her and then gut her, she wasn't even worth that much consideration. They slit her open and then left her to bleed out. What kind of a heartless bastard does that? Tell me Sherlock. Please. Because, despite everything I've seen I still can't understand that level of inhumanity."

By now, John had turned towards Sherlock and was looking at him, his blue eyes tinged with red from crying, pleading with Sherlock for an answer that the detective could not give.

Sherlock leant forward to take John's shoulders. "I can't answer that for you because I don't understand it myself. I can explain the motivations of murder, the chemical reactions caused by rage, the events that can lead to savagery, even the psychological processes that lead to mob violence, but I can't explain to you why some humans see other humans as somehow less. And yes, I know I call people idiots and dismiss them as unworthy of my time and consideration, but I don't see them as less than human or only worth slaughter. It isn't even hatred or even psychopathy, this was indifference. She literally meant nothing, and I agree, that is difficult to understand even when we see it more often than we care to admit. I suppose that was why you knew I wasn't a high-functioning sociopath despite my declarations."

"Yeah. You compartmentalise to prevent emotions from clouding your judgement, just like any good surgeon is forced to do to get the job done. But you do care about people. You've never been emotionless, even when you tried so desperately to suppress them so you didn't have to deal with them. Anyone who knows you sees you're not without empathy; you're not without feelings. You show Mary and I such love, it breaks my heart that you spent so many years thinking you were somehow wrong or unworthy."

Sherlock smiled a little sadly as he swept John into a hug, before turning him around to face the Inner Circle. He picked up the discarded coffee cup before returning his arm to John's shoulders and guiding him forward off the bridge. "Come on John. I bet you haven't eaten a thing since first thing this morning. Let's go to The Garden Café and get you tea and a sandwich. No wonder you're struggling emotionally with such low blood sugar. You know you need to eat regularly, and I'm cross with you not taking proper care of yourself."

John smiled a little weakly, but butted his head into Sherlock's shoulder with genuine affection. "Yeah. The ducks liked my sandwich. I could do with something. I'm beginning to feel quite nauseous."

"Come on. Then we'll head home. Mary has been shopping and has bought all your favourite foods for dinner. I'll give her a call when we get to the café to let her know you're OK. She can't wait for you to get home, but I'm sure she'd rather you were a little less pale before we get there. Now, nip into the loo and wash your hands and face while I grab you a sandwich. Oh, and you might want to remove that banana from your waistband. We don't want it to go off."

"Yes Sherlock. Thank you Sherlock." John said with a shy grin as he pushed the banana into Sherlock's coat pocket before he headed to the toilets to clean up.

Sherlock grinned back and felt a wave of relief as he deposited the paper bag and cup in the bin, then pulled out his phone to text Mary as he walked to the food counter.

He was in no doubt that John would have a bad time tonight as his subconscious processed the day's events, but with Mary on one side and Sherlock on the other, both holding him with love, it would be a lot better than it could have been. And he thought about Ximena and Gulpari, two strangers from opposite sides of the planet who had felt the compassion of Dr John Watson.

* * *

**Author's Note:** What defines creative works is the emotional response of the audience, good or bad. That is as essential to the creative process as the work itself. I had hoped to elicit some form of response, in which I appear to have been unsuccessful. I can only ask you to give me your thoughts on my endeavours, whatever they may be.

To those of you who have read these scratchings, I thank you. Your time and contribution is very much appreciated.

Thank you


	9. To sleep, perchance not to dream

**Thank you for the reviews, favs and follows. All feedback is gratefully received and helps me to work out how this story will develop.**

**In this chapter our lovers deal with the fallout of John's day.**

* * *

They walked back to Baker Street at a gentle stroll. Sherlock knew that John needed the facts of the case to better process the raw emotions churned up by the events of the morning. As they walked he talked John through the crime scene and the leads he had given DI Panesar.

"So, thanks to you they've managed to give her back her name?"

"Yes. The Mexican Embassy should be able to locate her family."

John looked down at his feet before staring off into the distance at nothing in particular. "Good. That's good. Thank you."

Sherlock reaches up to gently pat his friend's shoulder. "The least we could do was give her back her identity."

After another hundred yards of silence and contemplation, John turned his head to look at his partner's profile. "Do you think we'll get them?"

"We stand a chance. The longer they think we can't ID her, the more likely we are to catch them. The crime itself shows they're arrogant and stupid enough to think they can get away with murder. I doubt they'll even consider running unless they realise we've ID'd her. Even then they may think they've covered their tracks well enough. A lot will depend on the relationship between the bodyguard and his employer, and how easy it will be to buy the bodyguard's silence. Of course, the identity and position of the employer's family will have a bearing. They were using mules, not diplomatic bags to smuggle in the drugs, so the father is unlikely to be linked to the diplomatic corps, or is unwilling to risk that level of exposure for his addict son. However, power, wealth and connections can buy an awful lot of protection. We'll just have to see if the DI can identify our murderers, then we'll have a better idea how this will play out."

Sherlock was rooting in his pocket for the front door key when John's jaw tightened in resolution. "I want to get justice for her. I know she was a drug smuggler, but not everyone has a lot of choice in these things. She didn't deserve how she died. I want to help put that right."

"Well, you've already done a lot to help her by calling me in. It sounds like she would have gone unidentified if you hadn't have seen that all was not as it seemed. You did well. We continue tomorrow at ten o'clock when we give our statements. Are you OK with that?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm good." Sherlock was aware of John's left hand clenching twice, but he chose not to mention his love's distress.

The door at the top of the stairs flew open and Mary happily bounded down, embracing her husband with such force that the air left his lungs in a startled huff. "I'm so glad you're home. Well done for finding him so fast Sherlock." Mary disentangled herself, placed a kiss upon her husband's lips then ushered him up the stairs into the flat, the clasp of her hand around Sherlock's fingers dragging him along behind her. "Go and shower John. Sherlock will make tea while I start dinner. Come along, scoot." And she patted his bum before turning to hang his coat upon the hook by the door.

Once John was in the bathroom, Mary turned to Sherlock, embracing him and gently pulling his head down to plant a kiss upon his lips. "Thank you, sweetie for finding him. How bad is he?"

"Not brilliant but he's coping. It's churned up memories of an unpleasant incident in Afghanistan. He's never talked about his experiences in any detail, and I've never wanted to ask, but this one was pretty horrific."

"No, he's never really discussed anything with me either. Generalities, but no specifics. We'll just have to be there for him and help him work through this. At least he's not due back at the hospital this week. Do you think he should help you with the case?"

"Yes. He needs to give this girl closure. If DI Panesar wants us."

"OK. That's a plan. Now, wash your hands and get a brew on. Dinner won't cook itself."

Ten minutes later John padded down the stairs clad in sweat pants and a t-shirt, feet bare and towel rubbing his still damp hair. Entering the kitchen he found Mary and Sherlock sitting either side of the table, Sherlock chopping carrots and Mary peeling potatoes.

Mary looked up as her husband drew a chair from under the table and sat down. She pushed a chopping board, knife and savoy cabbage in front of him then planted an empty colander next to the board. "Chop the cabbage, love. Sherlock will make you a cuppa. The oven's on and dinner should be ready in half an hour."

John picked up the kitchen knife and set to work on the cabbage. Mary finished the potatoes and set them on to boil before starting to shell the fresh peas she'd bought as a special treat. Sherlock placed the mug of tea in front of John before returning to finish the carrots then assisting Mary with the peas. No-one spoke and there were no glances at John, each lover remaining focussed on their own job. They worked seamlessly with the ease and trust that develops between partners. Once all the vegetables were finished, Mary washed them and popped them in the saucepan, and the cabbage in the steamer then she returned to her seat at the table. Only then, with all three drinking the remains of their now cooling tea, did any of them speak.

It was John who broke the silence, asking Mary how her day at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine had gone. Her stories of the day's antics of her students lead into a light hearted discussion about their own times as students. Of course, Mary and John had shared most of their student days and Sherlock's university days had been spent in research and isolation from his fellow students, but listening to his loves laugh about some of the things they had got up to made his own memories feel less of a burden upon his soul.

Not for the first time, he wished that he had met people like this when he was a student. But then, he was honest enough with himself to know that he was not in any place at that time to accept friendship from anyone. It was only the caring of first Mrs Hudson and then Lestrade, the time he'd spent with the bizarrely buoyant Mike Stamford, Molly Hooper's gentle support and then meeting his wonderful, damaged soldier that had brought him to a place where he could accept his own humanity and emotions for the first time since he was 15.

The sound of the timer signalled that dinner was ready. Mary drained then mashed the potatoes, adding seasoning, butter and milk. Sherlock heated the plates in the microwave and rescued the sausages and caramelised onions from the oven. John grabbed the jar of gravy granules, adding water from the vegetable pan to the gravy boat and stirring in the onions.

Between them dinner was soon dished up, and they returned to their seats around the kitchen table. Sherlock had produced a rather fine bottle of Valpolicella to accompany the meal. The conversation from before continued as though it had never been interrupted with all three of them laughing and smiling in between mouthfuls of bangers and mash.

Food and wine finished, and plates, pans and glasses either soaking in the sink or awaiting washing on the work surface, the trio retired to the habitual position on the sofa. Not fifteen minutes later, Mrs Hudson called out from the stairs. "Open the door Sherlock. My hands are full." Huffing at little at being disturbed from his place of comfort, Sherlock opened the door to reveal Mrs Hudson bearing a tray covered in a tea towel.

"Here you go my dears. I have spotted dick and a jug of custard. I had some eggs that needed using so I made proper vanilla custard rather than using the packet stuff."

Mary jumped up to grab bowls and spoons. "Oh Mrs Hudson, you're spoiling us. Come and share this with us."

"Thank you dear, but if it's all the same with you I won't. You young ones need your own time, and I've already eaten. I've got a show I want to watch and then I'll be off to my bed. Just drop the tray down in the morning. Now I'll be off. Enjoy."

John stood to see Mrs Hudson out, embracing her and whispering a thank you in her ear before kissing her on the cheek. The sweetly generous lady fluttered and blushed slightly before placing her hand on his cheek. "Anything for my boys, you know that John. Anything for my girl and boys."

-0-0-0-

Both Mary and Sherlock slept with John that night in their bed. John knew that he was likely in for a bad night and was grateful that his loves were trying to mitigate the effects of the day's emotional upheaval without drawing attention to it. It was at times like this that he felt truly loved.

They were curled up in John and Mary's super king size bed. Mary lay to John's left, holding his hand as usual. Sherlock sat on his right, resting his back against the headboard, intent on spending the night on his laptop either researching or reading online scientific journals.

John fell asleep fairly quickly, probably helped by the soporific effects of the suet pudding and the wine. It was just gone three when Sherlock noticed Mary had begun to stir. She was still holding John's left hand, but it was not Mary who was causing the disturbance. Sherlock looked over, using the subtle backlight from his laptop to illuminate his sleeping partners. Mary was responding to John's rhythmic clenching of his left hand around her relaxed fingers. Sherlock sat back against the headboard, hoping that John would settle. The sudden tension in John's body and the frown that wrinkled his still sleeping brow dispelled that wish. John was in the early stages of a nightmare. Sherlock called up recordings he had made of himself playing some of the melodies John responded to when gripped by nightmares. Setting the volume low, he began the playback. At the same time he used the tips of his fingers to gently stroke the forehead and crown of John's head: a technique Sherlock had learnt from John himself who had often used it to soothe Sherlock when his mind was overloaded.

John did not calm immediately, but neither did his dream worsen, then, as suddenly as it had begun, the tension left John's body and he settled with a quiet huff of breath. As John settled, so too did Mary. Sherlock let the violin play for another fifteen minutes to be certain before closing his laptop and deeming it safe for him to snuggle down the bed and allow himself to find sleep. As he closed his eyes and rolled towards his companions Sherlock heard Capt. John Watson's voice from his Mind Palace. "Mission accomplished Lieutenant Holmes. Return to base."


	10. Make or break

**I've never disliked Sgt Donovan, but her standards of professionalism with regard to a certain Consulting Detective have always been appalling. So, with a few hints to Sally's back story, I'm letting DI Noor Panesar attempt to sort things out.**

* * *

Noor Panesar was a happy woman. She was sitting at her own desk in her own office in New Scotland Yard. It may be eight o'clock in the morning and she may be cruising on four hours sleep, but the vanilla latte was hot with an extra shot, the salmon and cream cheese bagel was soft with just the right amount of toasted crunch, and her team had ID'd the driver and vehicle on the Heathrow CCTV. Not only that, but they'd got him meeting other girls off the same flight from Mexico City every month for the last eleven months. They'd also identified the company that owned the vehicle, the driver's place of employment and residence from his driving licence and work visa, and had therefore identified his employer and probable accomplice.

At ten o'clock Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes would give their statements, tying up the loose ends of how Noor had got onto this lead in the first place.

That just left forensics to hopefully provide the final evidence to put a nail firmly in these shits coffin.

Yes, today was looking like a good day.

Until the knock at the door.

Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan entered, her face a picture of barely concealed loathing.

"Morning Sergeant. A good day I think. Quite a result if we can move quickly on the forensics. Dr Watson and Mr Holmes will be in at ten to give their statements. I want you to sit in with me while we take them as they will prove critical to tying this up."

Donovan fidgeted in her chair, her mouth a thin line of anger as though she was trying to stop her thoughts from escaping her lips.

"Out with it." Noor had had enough and wanted to hear what was going on in her bagman's head. She couldn't deal with the situation if she didn't understand it. The bagel now sat like lead in her stomach. She took a swig of coffee, but it was cooling and the syrup tasted sickly and fake. She threw the mostly empty cup in the bin and turned back to the woman who was beginning to seriously piss her off. If Donovan didn't get her head out of her arse soon, Noor was going to ask the DCI to move her on to some other poor sap, or better yet, another division.

"Come on. We've got a busy day, so if you've got something to say, just say it."

"Why did you let that freak into this case?"

Noor sighed and nested her fingers together as they rested on her desk. She could feel the tension building in her shoulders. She felt a pang of sympathy for DCI Lestrade if he'd put up with this all these years.

"I assume you mean Mr Holmes. I listened to him because his deductions were logical at the time and ultimately proved correct."

"But he's a psychopath. He gets off on it. And he has no feeling for the victims or their families. I've seen him reduce grieving relatives to tears just to get information out of them. He's a cold, heartless machine who just does this for the game, and you let him sucker you into letting him on this case."

"THAT'S ENOUGH!"

Noor's hand stung from where she'd slammed her palm onto the desk. She wanted to shake it out, but having done the unforgivable and lost her temper with her subordinate she was not going to compound the error by showing weakness.

"Firstly Sergeant, he did not sucker me. Dr Watson, a fully accredited Met Consultant, called in Sherlock Holmes, another fully accredited Met Consultant, to look at a case. Secondly, Mr Holmes' logic and deductions were perfectly sound and offered an alternative interpretation of the crime which ultimately proved correct. Thirdly, from what I saw of him, Mr Holmes is by no stretch of the imagination a psychopath."

"How can you say that? I've known him for six years and he so obviously gets off on it. You know he laughs, at crime scenes, with the victim laid out at his feet, and he'll grin and giggle like it's all a big joke. Serial killers are his favourite. He calls them Christmas. He's psycho and should be locked up before he kills someone else, because we've all heard the rumours about what he was doing while he was dead!"

Noor sat back and took a deep breath. She felt sure that this deep seated hatred of Sherlock Holmes was more than just professional jealousy.

"What I saw was a very talented detective. At no point did he treat the body of Ximena Mendez with anything but respect. I saw a highly intelligent man examining the subject and the data to pull together a hypothesis. At no time was his behaviour inappropriate." Taking a breath she phrased her next words carefully. "I take it you've never once laughed at a crime scene, shared a joke possibly at the expense of the victim, drunk a cup of coffee or eaten a sandwich while forensics did their job? You've never taken satisfaction and even elation from pulling together all the different threads of a case and seeing the solution or the key piece of evidence?"

"Of course I have ma'am. But he's different. He never used to get paid, he'd just turn up and flounce around, destroying our evidence."

"Really? I can't imagine Lestrade or any other DI would allow someone onto their crime scene who destroyed evidence or who jeopardised the case. They certainly wouldn't invite them in to consult on a regular basis or write them a personal recommendation for accreditation as a Consultant. Or is DCI Lestrade wrong?"

Sally looked shaken. Much as she'd argued with Lestrade over the years, she'd never once questioned his professional competence, except about … Holmes.

"I think, perhaps, Sergeant, that you have a virtual Sherlock Holmes in your head that you compare the actual man against. It's quite obvious how you see Holmes in your head. You just told me. The unfeeling psychopath who cares for nothing and no-one, who just does this for kicks. And I guess you take pride in telling anyone who listens exactly what you think." Donovan flinched. "Yes, I saw the interviews you gave to the papers at the time he faked his death. Your belief that he'd faked evidence and interfered with crime scenes, even committed crimes himself so he could solve them. You really helped do a number on him. Except my understanding is that a very expensive task force investigated every shred of evidence and every case Holmes had anything to do with and completely exonerated him of any wrong doing. Yet you still persist in believing your mental picture of him instead of looking at the evidence before you. If this is how you conduct police work Donovan I am seriously questioning whether you are in the right job."

Donovan blanched.

"I am going to make a suggestion to you which you can take or leave. The choice is yours. You can come into Mr Holmes's interview with me and ask what questions you like within reason. The only condition is that you must go in with an open mind, and you must seriously consider his answers and behaviour as though he were a total stranger to you. No pre-conceptions, no virtual Holmes. Just a pure analysis of the witness and the evidence before you. Can you do that?"

Sally shrugged. "Do I have an alternative?"

Noor sighed. "Of course. You can go back to your desk, write out your resignation letter which will be on my desk within the hour, hand in your credentials, collect your things and leave the Metropolitan Police with immediate effect. "

Donovan's shock was obvious. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she controlled herself. Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, but she angrily shook them away.

"The choice is yours Sergeant. Will you be joining me in the interview room at ten, or shall I assign another member of the team while you clear your desk?"

"I'll be there Ma'am."

Sally stormed out of the office and to the ladies loos. She hadn't smoked since her teens but at this moment she craved a cigarette. She thought about storming into Lestrade's office and demanding reassignment. How dare he palm her off on this bitch after all the years they'd worked together. She should be a DI too, not this cow's bagman. Where did she get off on lecturing Sally about Sherlock fucking Holmes, after all the years she'd watched him poncing around crime scenes, more recently with the delusional John Watson in tow telling him how brilliant and wonderful he is. Lestrade was the best DI in the Met with the highest clear up rate. He didn't need the Freak. Like Lestrade and Sally couldn't have solved most of those cases, assuming time and budget constraints hadn't pushed them further down the growing pile of new crimes until they went cold. Oh.

As Sally's anger cooled she began to think more clearly about what DI Panesar had said. Sally knew the Freak got results. She'd seen him sit with a pile of cold cases, some dating back over forty years, and just by reading the reports he could give them new leads, many of which panned out. In some cases he even identified the perpetrator. And she'd seen him at crime scenes, spotting crucial evidence that even Anderson had grudgingly admitted probably would have been missed or ruled insignificant. She'd also seen the results of the Met inquiry after the whole Richard Brook/Moriarty debacle.

Washing her face with cool water, before grabbing a paper towel to dab her still burning eyes dry, Sally stared hard at herself in the mirror over the basin.

"Well Sally, you know he's an arse. He is rude, arrogant and condescending. He swanks around the crime scene like he owns the place and we are his idiot minions, expected to kowtow to his every whim. But is he really worth losing my career over?"

Sally knew that the answer to that was a resounding no. All she'd ever wanted to be was a detective, ever since she'd watched Miami Vice with her foster mum when she was a kid and realised that people her colour didn't have to be only criminals or victims. That there was another choice. A choice that she'd worked damn hard to achieve. And if that meant that she had to sit through a witness interview and only look at the evidence and not at that stuck up git's stupid face then she could do this.

She ran her fingers through her hair, pushed her jacket sleeves up to her elbows, turned up her jacket collar and straightened the waistband of her skirt. Looking at her reflection with some satisfaction she growled "Come on Tubbs, let's do this thing." Before turning on her heel and marching back to her desk and the case.

-0-0-0-

Dr Watson and Mr Holmes sat side by side on one side of the table in the interview room. DI Panesar switched on the tape machine whilst DS Donovan started the video camera recording.

"Witness Statements from Consultant Dr John Watson and Consultant Mr Sherlock Holmes in the matter of the murder of Ximena Mendez. These statements are being recorded and filmed according to Metropolitan Police standing orders. Detective Inspector Noor Panesar and Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan are present. So Doctor Watson, do you want to start?"

John immediately launched into a long and deeply technical description of the victim's arrival at A&E, the triage, the removal of her clothing and her preparation for emergency surgery. His report was detached and almost cold, Sally noted. Not like the man she knew at all. This was the report of a former doctor and Captain with the RAMC, and she was surprised at how unemotional he seemed. This man who called Sherlock Holmes brilliant, who could smile so easily, who could giggle like a school boy or belly laugh until he was bent double, tears streaming down his face, seemed so surprisingly … professional.

"Why did you contact Mr Holmes?"

"Because the Constable who brought her in was wrong. We were triaging this young woman who was fighting desperately for her life, and he was stood the other side of the curtain laughing about her cloths, her brightly coloured boots and saying how, if he was going to do a Sweeny Todd he wouldn't pick the mingers like her. His words, not mine. And he was wrong. I could see at once this was not a random attack. It was obvious that murder was not the primary motive. If he only wanted her dead he would have just slit her throat. Her attacker didn't expect her to survive, after all he left her to bleed out with massive trauma to her abdominal cavity and the early stages of shock on top of a cocaine overdose, but he couldn't be bothered to simply kill her. So something other than murder was the motive. Also the weapon used was unusual and, given the location where the victim was found, was likely a straight razor. Again, if murder was the motive why not take your own weapon. So the attacker needed a knife urgently, but with nothing to hand, broke in to somewhere where he knew he would find what he wanted. All this said crime of desperation and opportunity. The victim was the intended target and her death was not as important as her evisceration. Given that the wounds were obviously made by someone with no medical training, not organ harvesting. My feeling was drug smuggling. I'm sorry DI Panesar, but I don't know you and I didn't want to waste time. I knew it was unlikely the woman would survive surgery, and time was of the essence so I called Sherlock."

"I think you made the right call in this case Doctor, although next time I'd prefer you call me first and I'll call in the Consultants." Noor smirked.

"Yes Ma'am." John smiled and Noor felt certain, if he hadn't been seated he'd have jokily snapped to attention and saluted.

"And her clothes? You supervised their removal and had them bagged for evidence?"

"Yes. Of course all the attending staff were gloved and wore overalls. They know the precedures for handling evidence. I had all her clothing cut from her body so we could assess and begin to treat her injuries. I instructed the nurse to ensure any clothing labels were visible through the evidence bags along with any obvious blood traces. By this time Constable Patterson had arrived with a colleague of his, Constable Okocha I believe, who accompanied the patient to surgery. Patterson stayed with me and the evidence which we secured in my office. When Sherlock arrived he studied the clothing through the evidence bags. As an added precaution he also wore surgical gloves. Constable Patterson was in attendance throughout the examination. When I received notification of the patient's death, Sherlock and I left Constable Patterson with the evidence and made our way to theatre. I believe Patterson radioed in to confirm you were on your way. We were with the body for perhaps three or four minutes before you arrived. Again we were gloved. I don't believe Sherlock touched the body although I did move her arms to show him the injuries to her wrists and hands and I pointed out the wounds to her abdomen. He had just spotted the evidence in her stomach when you arrived. Constable Okocha remained in the corridor."

"Very well Doctor. Is there anything else you wish to add?"

"Yes. I doubt she could hear, but before she was transferred to surgery, Nurse Wilson told her she was beautiful and should keep fighting."

Sally suddenly felt an unexpected pang of guilt. The callous behaviour of one of their own had prompted a nurse to say that to a dying girl. Sally noticed the Doctor's left hand was clenched tightly where it rested on the table. She also noticed Sherlock briefly lay his own hand over that fist and watched the tension release. She remembered how many times she'd unconsciously noticed Dr Watson clenching and unclenching his fist when she and Sherlock were in one of their slanging matches. Had she been unknowingly responsible for causing the doctor pain? And why had she been so determined to drive a wedge between the detective and his flatmate. She'd told herself it was to save the doctor from being used, but was it really to hurt the detective? And had it hurt the doctor too? Was she really that petty and vindictive? She began to wonder if perhaps she had learnt more about being a cast iron bitch from her older sister than she liked to admit.

"And Mr Holmes, please can you give an account of your actions from the time Dr Watson called?"

Sherlock's evidence was as expected. Precise, concise and, if she was totally honest with herself, very clever. Sally watched closely throughout, scrutinizing the man before her, but trying to keep an open mind. She didn't feel the need to ask many questions, only clarifying points of evidence or joining the dots between leaps of insight so that, should this ever be needed, the deductions told a cohesive story.

By 11:20 they were done, and Sally felt exhausted. But this was no time to sit back. They had evidence to chase up, hopefully, arrests to make before this was over. She was glad she'd decided to sit in on the interview. It had given her a lot to think about, when she had the time. She was beginning to suspect that DI Panesar wasn't the cow she'd thought.

-0-0-0-

It was close to four thirty and Noor had just got off the phone to her husband, Adarshpal, to let him know it was doubtful she'd be home much before midnight, again. She needed a coffee and not the muck out of the vending machine. Grabbing her mobile, coat and purse she walked out of her office fully intending to visit the Sandwich Shop behind the Yard to pick up sandwiches and decent coffee. She rather hoped they'd still have some soup left over from lunch. She needed something with vitamins to get her through the evening. As she closed her office door behind her, she spotted Donovan at her desk, head bowed, engrossed in something.

"Sergeant Donovan, grab your coat and walk with me. I think we need caffeine."

Sally's head bobbed up in surprise, her curls bouncing and her eyes wide. "Yes Ma'am. Be right there."

The two women met at the lift just as the doors opened. They entered in silence and turned to face the door as Sally pushed the floor button.

Noor decided to open the conversation. This was make or break. By the time they returned to the office she would either have a competent bagman she could work with, or a vacancy.

"How do you think the interviews went?"

Sally bit her lip, considering her answer. "Well, I think. Dr Watson was obviously right to call in Holmes. Should have called you first Ma'am, but given the behaviour of our constable I can see why he didn't. I was going to have a word with him about professional standards and maybe arrange a refresher course on crime scene etiquette, but I thought I'd better talk to you first given … everything."

"I think that disciplining the constables needs a Sergeant's touch don't you Donovan?" Noor felt a slight twitch of her lips and a lifting of some of the tension.

"Yes Ma'am."

The lift doors opened and they made their way towards the Sandwich Shop. "I'll get these. So what else did you get from the interviews? I'm thinking particularly about what we discussed earlier."

Sally took a few minutes to consider, using the DI's ordering of food and coffee to buy her much needed thinking time. She then ordered her own coffee and a sandwich whilst the DI paid for both orders. They sat at a table by the window while they waited for their takeaway orders to be brought to them.

"I think I was wrong." Sally never thought she'd say it, but she had to be honest with herself. She'd held on to her own image of Sherlock Holmes for so long that she hadn't seen how much he'd changed and just how skewed that image had become. She'd clung to it like some grotesque talisman, her constant in a changing world; she wasn't even sure if he ever had been like that, not really. After they'd left the interview room she'd wracked her brains trying to remember the last time he'd retorted to one of her barbs, and realised it was before his fall, before all the pain and before John Watson had been broken.

They'd spent the afternoon chasing up the evidence, before bringing in a Mexican on a student visa and his American bodyguard for questioning on the strength of the CCTV footage. They were being held in custody overnight while alibis, trace evidence and DNA samples were tested. They had enough to get a warrant to search the car, but since they already knew the victim had been in the vehicle, but not killed there it was doubtful it would give them anything. The forensics team were going over the interior overnight. Maybe they'd find blood from after they'd left the barber shop, but the car had been thoroughly cleaned recently so they'd have to get lucky.

Sally had only sat back down at her desk about thirty minutes before DI Panesar had asked her to get coffee. She'd been reviewing the witness testimonies, but in the back of her mind she'd spent the afternoon stewing on what she'd seen in that interview room.

"I think you were right Ma'am. If he hadn't been there we'd have lost the evidence of balloons in her stomach and even though we probably would have got on to her nationality, we were working on the premise of her being a random victim who lived in the UK, rather than a targeted victim who had just arrived. I doubt we'd have found out her name yet, let alone have brought in her attackers for questioning. I still think his attitude to the victims and their families stinks, but you're right about his ability to piece together the evidence."

"What you need to remember Donovan is that none of us can afford to get emotionally invested in the victims of crime. That way lies madness. Surgeons can't afford to see their patients as anything more than a body, scientists see their subjects as nothing more than data points and we need to see victims as just that, a subject of crime. When I first made Sergeant in Manchester I spent a year assigned to tracking down a paedophile ring. It was the hardest year of my life and I spent the first month alternating between sobbing and vomiting. I barely slept and could hardly eat. By the end of the month I was a wreck. My DI, a hardnosed old bastard pushing retirement called Baxter, sat me down and told me a few home truths. He pointed out that distancing ourselves from the victims did not mean stripping them of their humanity, or not caring about them, it simply meant removing the emotional connection from them so we could do our jobs effectively. The victim deserves our best. Crying with them doesn't help, but doing our job and solving the case does. You can't solve a case and keep cool enough to not jeopardise the conviction if you're emotionally compromised, and by the end of that first month I was well and truly compromised. He gave me a long weekend off to get my head back on and then I was straight back in at the deep end. He was right. There is a damn good reason why it's called professional detachment."

Sally listened, sipped the coffee that had now arrived, and nodded her head in agreement. She could understand where her DI was coming from, having been in not dissimilar positions herself, both as a police officer and in her own childhood.

"Grab you sandwich and we'll head back. As for Holmes, I think he has professional detachment in spades, but I think he is personally _very _attached." Donovan let out a small gasp of surprise. "What? You didn't notice that little quirk of a smile when I congratulated Dr Watson for spotting the discrepancies on the victim, or whenever we mentioned the victim's name. I think it's very important to both of them that she isn't a Jane Doe. In fact, I think a lot of things are important to our Mr Holmes, especially protection of his friends. Didn't he sacrifice his professional reputation, good name and life to protect his friends, including the DCI, from a criminal mastermind? I don't think that was the act of a psychopath or even a sociopath. There's not many men who would make that kind of sacrifice for their own family, let alone friends. No, I think our Mr Holmes feels a lot more than he cares to admit, and anyone who has him as a friend is very lucky indeed."

As they walked to the lift DI Panesar's phone rang. She answered quickly, listening to the caller and making appropriate replies before a smile lit up her face. "Yes, get it down to forensics immediately. Tell them to check for blood type and DNA. Top priority. I need those results ASAP, we've got less than fourteen hours left before we have to release. Oh, and good spot Sergeant. Well done."

Entering the lift, the DI still smiled broadly as she put her phone away. "That was the Custody Sergeant. He was logging our prisoners' belongings. You know that fancy gold watch the bodyguard was wearing, the one with a chunky gold bracelet. Well, when the Sarge was logging it he spotted what looks like traces of blood in the links and under the winder. He's getting forensics on to it now. If it's our victim's we've got them, hook, line and sinker."

* * *

**I very much doubt DI Panesar could have forced Donovan out like she threatened, and I have no idea what the standard procedure is for taking witness interviews. I'm working on the principle that the videoing and recording of Sherlock's deductions and statements is a special procedure put in place for him. And at the end of the day, this is an AU.**

**Congratulations to me - this is now my longest ever story. **


End file.
